


Then All The World Would See (How Much In Love We Are)

by a_different_equation



Category: Bartleby the Scrivener - Herman Melville, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Bisexual John Watson, Coming Out, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotionally Repressed, Epistolary, First Kiss, Holmes Brothers, Hurt John Watson, Irish!John, John Watson's War, John Whump, John is Sherlock's Boss, John is a Mess, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Matchmaker Mike Stamford, Military Kink, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD John, References to Alan Turing, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock is John's PA, Swearing, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-06-07 04:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, in the language of his insufferable brother, was ‘definitely intrigued’ about his job at the dead letter office. At twenty-eight, he had outgrown the horror of drug addiction, which was so characteristic of his younger years. Enter one John Watson, a fuck-up who doesn’t want to be a fuck-up anymore and also wants to fuck Sherlock Holmes. That he’s Sherlock's boss happens to be the least of their problems.Ch.7: Every story has its Reichenbach.





	1. 29 January 2007

**Author's Note:**

> Hallo & Welcome to "Then All The World Would See (How Much In Love We Are)"!
> 
> As the tags already tell you: it's an AU. Expect ANGST but I promise a happy ending. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are a mess; they are truly two idiots in love. 
> 
> It's an Office!AU. John is Sherlock's boss. Sherlock is his PA. However, it's not the TV series 'The Office' which stared Martin Freeman that partly inspired "Then All The World Would See (How Much in Love We Are)" but the American short story by Herman Melville called 'Bartleby'. It's the Kafkaeque tale with the iconic quote "I prefer not to". You don't have to read the story to understand the fan fiction, neither to have read ACD canon. You can of course and will discover some easter eggs :)
> 
> For everyone worrying about major character death: nope, not here. I promise.
> 
> The tie to 'Bartleby' and - to some extent - ACD is the reason why it is now part of Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial 2018. Thanks to doc & red for hosting and giving my story a "home".  
>  
> 
> The Game is On!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson comes back from the war, gets a new job thanks to Mike Stamford and meets Sherlock Holmes. However, this time it's 2007, they work in the Dead Letter Office in London, and John is Sherlock's boss.
> 
> The Game is on.

_My name is Dr. John H. Watson._

_I am a middle-aged man, and I am in love with a dead man, Sherlock Holmes._

_And all I can hope is that he will come back and returns my letters, after all, he was the best employee the Dead Letter Office in London ever had._

 

* * *

 

Before the story really starts, which means John Watson meeting Sherlock Holmes, let me tell you a bit about Dr. John H. Watson. The story – which won’t be a love story for quite some time, and I am not sure if it ever will qualify as a “proper” one –  started many years before their first, rather strange meeting.

 

Once, John Watson used to be a young man, eager and bright, dreaming of helping people, dreaming of another life.

He was trained in medical school – St. Bart's in London, to be precise –, deployed to the battlefield shortly afterwards.

For five years, he was a soldier in his Majesty Army.

The war was dark, full of violence and gore, but not without a special kind of beauty. Until John Watson met Sherlock Holmes, he never witnessed anything quite like that again. The camaraderie, blood pumping through his veins, the adrenalin, the constant alert, the danger: He loved it all, with all his heart, and he hated it, with all his heart; in truth: John H. Watson has never felt so alive until the day he was shot.

It was his shoulder, an actual wound, but nothing mortal.

 

When John Watson thought he was dying on the hot desert of Afghanistan, he prayed, “Dear God, let me live”.

And maybe, for a glimpse of a second, he refered to himself as Johnny once more. Another story, another secret, another layer of this enigmatic man Sherlock Holmes would fall in love with at first sight. Because John H. Watson only appeared to be an ordinary man.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

Johnny survived.

John regretted his – what he supposed to be last words – rather early. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) was the diagnosis and John H. Watson was honourably discharged. Though his army career was effectively terminated then, it took another quarter of a year before he was back in London.

 

Ella, his therapist, always told him that it is not his fault.

That it was not his fault that he was shot in the shoulder.

That it was not his fault that he cannot walk without a cane.

That it was not his fault that he cannot forget the war.

That all of it was not John's fault and that it will get easier.

Just battle on, keep calm and carry on, be a soldier today – without being a soldier.

Be a proper British citizen, be a civilian now, be ordinary, boring, plain, old – no, middle-aged! – Dr. John H. Watson.

Ella insisted that it will get easier.

John's only thought, day in, day out? 'That nothing ever happens to me': He might have even said as much – ironically, a day or two before everything changed – “Nothing ever happens to me”.

 

Anyway, where was I? The days before January the 29th of 2007.

 

John Watson was back in London.

He was alone in the middle of a crowd, solitary among multitudes, and he could have been lost forever. He was surviving on an army pension that barely kept him fed and housed, and even then, he was living beyond his means.

His hands shook too badly to recommend him for a position at the hospital, and his nerves were too shattered to guarantee a full night’s sleep. He woke more often than not with the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. [3]

 

During these days, his constant companions were ghosts. He never returned the calls of his brothers in arms – and believe me, John knew that Bill Murray worried about him, constantly. Johnny never returned the texts of his sister Harry either – and believe me, John knew that she only cared when she would sober for a day, which was not often. Her marriage was a mess, she was a mess, and they all were all a mess.

John preferred not to care.

During these days, the only (self-) talk (Ex-)Captain John Watson conducted was the echo of his commanding officers voice, Major James Sholto, in his head.

 

It was pathetic.

It is what it is, and yes, it was shit.

 

The bedsit – that he should not call home but where he was living anyway – was in a terrible part of London. He should have found a different place long ago, but he couldn't afford something else on an army pension. 'And who would want me as a flatmate', he said to myself.

It was only a few days after John had made this pronouncement to himself that Mike Stamford, an old acquaintance of him from his days training at Bart’s, spotted him in a crowd at the Criterion. One moment he was utterly alone, and the next Stamford's round, familiar face seemed to materialise in front of him. [4]

Dr. Mike Stamford recommended Dr. John H. Watson as the Head of Dead Letter Office in London.

 

 

* * *

 

When people ask what John H. Watson would do for a living in the following years, he could quote the letter below. Because this is what he did and what Sherlock would do, and Molly and all the others, until everything would went to hell in 2008 onwards.

 

>   _My darling,_
> 
> _... I lie awake all night waiting for the postman in the early morning, and then when he does not bring anything from you I just exist, a mass of nerves…_
> 
> _There is nothing more than I desire in life but to have you with me constantly…_
> 
> _Imagine the time when the war is over and we are living together... would it not be better to live on from now on the memory of our life together when it was at its most golden pitch._
> 
> _All my love forever,_
> 
> G. [1]

 

What are dead letters, you might ask. Dead letters are letters that are impossible to deliver.[2] There are various reasons for such an incidence. Here, in the Dead Letters Office in London, they specialize in a certain type of dead letters: the ones that should have found “home” during Second World War and ongoing Cold War.  

The letter I quoted at the beginning is by Gilbert and Gordon, two star-crossed lovers during WW2, two soldiers fighting proud. Their letters were found in 2008.

 

To bring dead letters back to life, so to speak, John had a team of specialists and the use of modern technologies at his disposal. The office cooperated with archives and museums and we outsource our work regularly to well-trained experts around the globe. Their library and the archive were stocked with old volumes; dust dancing in the air; the typical smell of decaying paper. They had old wood floors and grand paintings from Post-War-Times in the entrance even the building was located in the City of London.

Personally, John Watson still prefered to write by hand than to type.

 

John worked in the dead letter office five days a week, from eight until six, sometimes even later. His job as the head was like running a madhouse. His assumption was right that he had not been hired because he had actual combat experience, but because he had proven to have a temper and to have an air of authority. Or, how he called it in private: 'I was a soldier, trained as a doctor, but I had bad days. Believe me when I say: You don’t want to meet me when I have a bad day'

 

When John's team (Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson, and Molly Hooper, their freelancer) pitted the first fight over budget and time period and whatever nonsense, John reminded them of his own fate: "That he could come home from the war, that he could deliver his letter to his sweetheart in person, that not everyone was that lucky." He did not mention to his team how it turned out with Mary because it was an unnecessary detail.

Instead, John reminded them about the work they do, that they were the last hope, because when it was impossible for the men to come home alive, then they tried to achieve one last miracle. They worked in the name of the dead, who were gone but not forgotten, who were still missed and loved. As if, the dead could say in the end, “Thank you for believing.” The dead letters office turned  “lost cause” – or “cold case”, alternatively, how Sherlock will prefer to call it – into “case closed”.

Or, as Gilbert and Gordon had written 70 years ago: "Wouldn't it be wonderful if all our letters could be published in the future in a more enlightened time. Then all the world could see how in love we are."

 

 

* * *

 

 

One morning, a young man stood upon John Watson's office threshold.[5] His expensive looking, probably tailor-made suit, a cosy looking scarf which matched the colour of his button-down, and a coat that resembled the iconic one Oscar Wilde used to wear. He was overall strikingly gorgeous.

The man was Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock's and John's eyes locked, and all was done.

Oh, how terrified John was! It had been as if he had come home at last, only to learn that home was not a place but a person. A person who happened to be a man. For a heartbeat, it was as if he could hear Johnny once more, in his broad Irish dialect, the one he had desperatly to get rid off, Johnny who exclaimed internally, 'Well, fuck me' _._

There was a battle inside him: the soldier, who wanted to stood up a bit straighter, and the man who wanted to lick his lips.

 

As it is all over, one can tell the truth now: When John first saw Sherlock's face, he wanted to fuck him or get fucked by him, he didn't care which way, where and when, preferably sooner than later, and if you believe for one second that he regreted thinking that? Then you are an even bigger fool that John Watson has been in the following years.

 

Because after a few words touching Sherlock Holmes' qualifications, John Watson engaged him.

All businesslike.

Because he was officially his boss now.

 

And John has never felt more alive as when he gave Sherlock a short tour and pointed at his future workspace — in a dead letter office, and isn’t that a twist.

 

tbc

 

* * *

Notes:

  
[1] Combination of real (!) love letters written by two soldiers during WW2 in UK: Gordon Bowsher and Gilbert Bradley.

>   
>  Wednesday January 24th 1939
> 
>   
>  My darling,  
>  ... I lie awake all night waiting for the postman in the early morning, and then when he does not bring anything from you I just exist, a mass of nerves...  
>  All my love forever,  
>  G.
> 
> ________________________________________  
>    
>    
>  February 12 1940, Park Grange  
>    
>  My own darling boy,  
>  There is nothing more than I desire in life but to have you with me constantly...  
>  ...I can see or I imagine I can see, what your mother and father's reaction would be... the rest of the world have no conception of what our love is - they do not know that it is love...  
>    
>  ________________________________________  
>    
>  February 1st, 1941 K . C. Gloucester Regiment, Priors Road, Cheltenham  
>    
>  My darling boy,  
>  For years I had it drummed into me that no love could last for life...  
>  I want you darling seriously to delve into your own mind, and to look for once in to the future.  
>  Imagine the time when the war is over and we are living together... would it not be better to live on from now on the memory of our life together when it was at its most golden pitch.  
>  Your own G.

You can learn more about their love, life and legacy (there's talk about adapting their story for screen), as well - of course - learn and read their letters, here: "[Forbidden love: The WW2 letters between two men](https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-38932955)". Or, go direct to the homepage of the [Oswestry Town Museum](http://oswestrytownmuseum.co.uk/). Also, there has been an amazing activity for the Open Heritage Days 2017: "Gilbert & Gordon: Then All The World Could See How In Love We Are" was a public participation project inspired by love letters exchanged between two WWII soldiers, Oswestry-based Gunner Gilbert Bradley and Infantryman Gordon Bowsher. The project sought to recognise and celebrate the diversity of love within our communities in 2017 by creating a commemorative diamond ring from the ashes of burned love letters written by members of the public. Learn more about it [here](https://www.heritageopendays.org.uk/visiting/unsung-stories/unsung-stories2017/gilbert-gordon-then-all-the-world-could-see-how-in-love-we-are).

[2] A **dead letter office** (DLO) is a facility within a [postal system](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mail) where [undeliverable mail](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dead_letter_mail) is dealt with. Mail is considered to be undeliverable when the address is invalid so it cannot be delivered to addressee, and there is no [return address](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Return_address) so it cannot be returned to the sender. At a DLO, mail is usually opened to try to find an address to forward to. If an address is found, the envelope is usually sealed using tape or postal seals, or enclosed in plastic bags and delivered. If the letter or parcel is still undeliverable, valuable items are then auctioned off while the correspondence is usually destroyed. Despite this practice, in the past some undeliverable envelopes were acquired by [philatelists](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philately). Dead letter offices go by different names in different countries. Other names include **returned letter office** or **undeliverable mail office**. (<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dead_letter_office>). In the UK, a Dead Letter Office was first established in 1784 for dead and missent letters that had reached London. The bye-letter offices dealt with bye-letters and those that did not go to London. No postage was charged for returns, which were made after six months, where an addressee was found. From 1790, a charge was made for returned letter but [John Palmer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Palmer_%28postal_innovator%29) reduced the time to two months. Upon hearing of the return charge, [William Pitt](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Pitt_the_Younger) rescinded the charge.

Fun Fact: Benedict Cumberbatch portrayed William Pitt in "Amazing Grace" (2006)!).

In the UK, undeliverable mail is processed in the National Returns Centre in [Belfast](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belfast), which holds 20 million undeliverable items, or in a smaller office in [Portsmouth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portsmouth). 

Long story short: There is NO dead letter office in London.

[3] Inspired by ACD: A Study in Scarlet, p. 3-5. With some elements used from BBC's SHERLOCK, A Study in Pink. Thanks to Ariane DeVere for providing the script. 

[4] Inspired by ACD: A Study in Scarlet, p. 5.

[5] Inspired by Bartleby, p. 3.


	2. 1st Year (2007): SHERLOCK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Year in the Life of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 
> 
> He is intrigued by dead bodies more than dead letters. However, to Sherlock's surprise what intrigues him the most happens to be his boss, John Watson. Interesting... that needs further study, for science, of course!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to Chapter Two, and welcome, Mr Sherlock Holmes! It's time to meet the other half of the duo, don't you think?
> 
> The problem, of course, is that Sherlock Holmes is kind of an enigma. Sure, one could argue that John Watson is the even bigger one (and Sherlock will agree with you, as he'll say later to himself in the chapter) but the problem is... who's the man behind the myth? We all know that he never said, "Elementary, my dear Watson" and never wore a "deerstalker". When writing from Sherlock/Holmes' perspective it gets pretty tricky pretty fast. We all can agree that 'The Garridebs'-moment is real... there is a man with emotion behind the mask but who is he? And how does he think (besides A LOT) and how would his inner working sound like? 
> 
> BBC SHERLOCK offered with the last two series a first glimps into the man behind the myth (and yes, you have read correctly: the LAST, not the first two). However, for the purpose of this story I fused him a bit. Also, filled in some blank spots. Lucky me, I happen to be a fan of Ngaio Marsh, one of the Queen of Crime (yes, like Agatha Christie). Benedict Cumberbatch happen to narrate quite a few of her famous detective novels - what a coincidence. 
> 
> Let's fuse some 1930s/40s detective written by a queer woman with ACD/BBC Sherlock, shall we. 
> 
> The Game is On!

Sherlock Holmes, in the language of his insufferable brother, was ‘definitely intrigued’ about his new job at the Dead Letter Office in London. At twenty-eight, he had outgrown the horror of drug addiction, which was so characteristic of his younger years. He was actually on his way to work, and in colossal form at the very thought of it.

 

He learnt back in his car seat and grinned at Mycroft next to him. For his first day at work, his brother had insisted to drive him; or, more accurate, to have one of his chauffeurs drive them in one of the many black limousines that seemed to have super powers for ‘normal’ people. His brother was an odd fellow. One never knew much of what went on behind that mask. Mycroft Holmes returned his younger brother’s ruminative stare with one of those twisted smiles that Sherlock always reminded of a faun.

 

“Shan’t be long now,” said Mycroft. “The next street is ours. You can spot the beginnings of the building over there to the left.”

Sherlock stared at the mix of modern glass, steel and old heritage with growing horror.

“That is the house,” confirmed Mycroft. “Yes, I share your sentiment, Sherlock. Some architects have lost all their artistic senses, if they had it in the first place.”

Before his brother could start a monologue, Sherlock interrupted him and inquired further, “Who will receive me? Give me the ‘grand tour’? Are they on your pay roll already?”

Sherlock had heard much about the dead letters office ‘unique and particular original documents, notes and letters’, from a client who had got a letter returned by them from a brother who had died during WW2. If the truth be told, somewhat enthusiastic, because apparently, his client had thought it to be lost forever. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was intrigued. That is why he repeated, “Who will be there?”

“The usual staff, Sherlock,” answered Mycroft patiently, “with the addition of Dr. Molly Hooper who is a freelancer. There are Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson, Greg Lestrade who is the head of human resources, maybe he will give you the ‘grand tour’, as you have so neatly put. Lastly, of course, Dr. John Watson, the head of the dead letters office and the one who hired you as his personal assistant. Try not to mock it up this time. Or, at least, make it one day.”

Sherlock stood up and struggled into his overcoat as the car slowed down and drew to a halt.

“I’ll try my best, brother mine. But as you know very well: I cannot promise anything.”

And with this Sherlock got out and stepped away from the car.

He left his brother and his old life behind as he entered the Dead Letter Office in London.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the movies or TV shows, it is know as a “meet cute”, or such rubbish. However, for John and Sherlock, it was more like irritation.

In the office, when he applied for the job as Dr. John H. Watson's personal assistant, Sherlock found his new boss rather dull and tedious, while he thought that his employer believed him to be a bohemian cliché (or an awkward sod; at least, that one was true).

Anyway, Sherlock cared about The Work.

Immediately, he replied when he was asked, “You know what your work supposed to entail?” with, “I search for the answers for which no one remembers the questions.”

“That is a rather... unusual way to put it, but...," replied his new employer.

'What else could I do than to interrupt him? Better, get him used to my habits early on', so Sherlock thought. Therefore, he quickly said, “I’m right. You and the others would describe it more dully but that is because you are an idiot. What we, no, what I am going to do is to solve a mystery. I assume we can both agree that there is hardly more fascinating mysteries to find than delivering letters everybody else think of terms of dead ones. ... Besides solving real crimes, of course, that is. However, as my brother made very clear to me that I should persuade a more suitable profession first, I guess, dead letters will have to be. So: When can I start?”

A sense of something _different_ was awakening in Sherlock, but he tried to argue with himself that it was only the prospect of a new job, a new challenge, and a minor detail, the reminder of his ever-meddling brother Mycroft Holmes, that left him _odd_.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's gaze met.

As John stood before Sherlock, he felt my face reddening under the other man's gaze, as John seemed oddly familiar. 

Sherlock felt as if he already knew John's next movement, and the next inflexion of his clear, rather clipped voice. It was a little as though he thought of him a great deal, but never met him before. These impressions held him transfixed, for how long, Sherlock never knew, while he still kept his eyes on John. Then something clicked in his mind – at last, his brain, his precious organ came back online – and he realised that he had stared at Dr. John Watson as if he was an enigma. The inconvenient, normally unheard of, blush had mounted painfully to the roots of his black curls.

His new boss turned away from Sherlock; irrationally, he wanted to blurt out, “No!"

Strangely, his employer beat him to it with saying, “I’m sorry.”

Before they could both embarrass each other further, Sherlock hurried to ask, “Dinner?”

He saw him lick his lips, a second time in under ten minutes, all in his presence. Interesting, and even more Sherlock's more than unusual reply: “Starving.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

> Text Thread between **Sherlock Holmes** and **Mycroft Holmes**
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 03:00 pm
> 
> Mycroft, what do you want? I do not think that there is something in this world you, and your gigantic nose, are not able to sniffer out. So: Leave me alone. SH
> 
>  
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 03:01pm
> 
> Always so aggressive, Sherlock. There is no need to snap. I am simply interested. My little brother having a serious job for the first time after…  You know that I am worried about you, constantly.
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 03:02pm
> 
> I am not emotional. I am aware of your “worry”, or, would you prefer the term “camera”? SH
> 
>  
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 03:02pm
> 
> Update, Sherlock.
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 03:04pm
> 
> Work is good. I am clean. End of story. Have a nice day, Mycroft. Do not start a war before six. I want to catch a cab and it is difficult enough in the normal rush hour. SH

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ve met Dr. Watson?”

His insufferable brother waited for Sherlock when he left the dead letters office.

As always, Nycrroft Holmes was not only wearing a suit, polished shoes and a dark overcoat – just like Sherlock himself – but also carrying an umbrella. The reason why Mycroft was doing it remained a mystery to him. High likely, to infuriate Sherlock and all the others, or to spy on them because Sherlock hasn't been over his "childish conspiracy theory" yet that a voice recorder or some device to murder someone was hidden in the umbrella somewhere. Mycroft Holmes who occupied a minor position in the British Government. He worried constantly over his younger brother (for good reason, even Sherlock preferred to think otherwise) that some text messages had not been convincing enough.

“John. Yes, I met him. We even dined together in the canteen today.”

“You did?” Mycroft could not keep his emotion out of his voice for once, “so it seems that you get on rather pleasantly. Will _Dr. Watson_ await you at the office for your regular work, Sherlock?”

“ _John_?” Sherlock replied nonchalant, “Yes, he will be there. In fact, he mentioned over lunch that he will wait for me personally.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft wanted intervene and obviously comment, but then he spotted the peculiar bright boldness of his younger brother eyes. Sherlock was almost starring him down as if he wanted to say: ‘I am enjoying myself: I dare you to disapprove’.

“How is it, Mycroft, I would kill for proper tea and some biscuits? You are on a diet, of course, but maybe one of your servants here can at least produce some Earl Grey Tea. The food in the canteen is abhorred.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was Sherlock’s first “official” day in his new job.

From now on, he was the personal assistant to Dr. John H. Watson, the head of the Dead Letters Office in London.

Sherlock Holmes was no idiot; he knew quite well, what his job postion should entail. After all, he was a genius. In an instant, Sherlock had registered what John needed. A good personal assistant, Sherlock was sure of this, did what their boss wishes and granted/fulfilled them even before the wish entered their respective mind. What a coincidence that Sherlock might not be a mind reader but his deducing skills were far superior to some magic trick.

 

Sherlock's first mission as John's PA would be to improve the working habit of the office.

 

In his mind, he labelled all questions ‘answered’ or ‘unanswered’. If a speculative or unconventional idea came up, it was prompt dealt with or prompts shut up in his mind palace particular room to look it over later at home.

His intensive training, first in boarding school then in university, even Sherlock would say that his index and the learning of the memo technique were mostly the most effective skill sets, and to transfer it from period system of the elements over cold cases to dead letters? All of this was hardly challenging. It only took Sherlock about an hour.

 

Sherlock was aware of the fact that there supposed to be some office etiquette.

He probably should not know things like, ‘where John had his lunch, with whom he had it and what had been served’. Further, he should probably not glare at the woman for hours (Janine? Janice? Janet?) who had even gone so far as not only eat with John in the canteen but also to drag him outside to restaurant that offered a special for lunch break? However, Sherlock convinced himself that he needed to know where his boss is at all times; who cares that it was lunch break. He was John's PA; it was practically his job description, wasn't it.

Furthermore, Sherlock was painfully aware of the subtlest nuances in the others employees’ attitude towards himself. Oh, Sherlock grinned at his 'introduction' to the team. Apparently, it is custom to revisit the letter before handing it over to the clients. Oh, it had been great fun to sent “WRONG!” to their private mobile phones whenever Anderson, Donovan, or whoever else was present of the freelancers and so called experts had overlooked - AGAIN - something in what they considered a 'case closed'. Surely, it wasn't Sherlock's fault when they turned out to be idiots? 

Already some hours in the new job, Sherlock pondered if he could create a new title for himself. Something of a consultant, maybe. Someone had to overlook in particular what Donvan and Anderson were up to (or not). Maybe, Sherlock should talk to/at Graham soon. Catch him off guard when he was returning from the canteen when he had been chatting up Molly again. George was the Head of Human Resources, wasn't he?

  

Anyway, Sherlock was neatly optimistic about his new job.

Most importantly, John had impressed him favourably. It might have been cheek to offer him to call him Sherlock instead of Mr Holmes, but Sherlock - his ever-observant personal assistant - deduced that Dr. John H. Watson did not need a personal assistant per se. (And that Sherlock had called him John without question, too.)

If all John needed was a friend…. one would see. 

Sherlock might not be a patient man most of the times, but John Watson could be worth it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Excuse me,” said a slightly high-pitched voice during lunchbreak, “we have not met, I believe. Allow me to make an introduction of myself. Doctor –“

“Molly Hooper”, Sherlock cut her short, “You’re the freelancer, who happened to work as a pathologist prior. Interesting. Yes, I’m interested.”

Molly had given a very noticeable start at this unexpected interruption. She recovered herself and stepped forward, offering a slightly awkward smile.

“I beg your pardon... how do you know? No... Well, yes... interested. In what exactly...?” she stammered.

“Ah!” Sherlock shouted excited. “You will learn that I’m even more interested in dead bodies than dead letters. So, pray continue, Dr. Hooper. What can you tell me about... murder?”

 

 

* * *

 

Time moved on.

Against all odds, and to Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock kept regular working hours in the Dead Letters Office in London. Spring past, then summer, and all was well. With the beginning of autumn, John's mood decreased with the declining weather. The reason for the change in his employer's mood were mostly unknown to Sherlock. A fact that annoyed him a great deal.

Sure, Sherlock had deduced John’s military past. Further, he could observe the limp that ached in the cold as well as the actual shoulder wound. All Sherlock could observe was John Watson's raging temper as well as his resulting hard-on which was rather unfortunate when working in close proximities. 

The problem was that Sherlock did not want to avoid John, or rail him up per se, and Sherlock wanted to claim that 'all is transport', but the truth was that Sherlock cared. For maybe the first time in his life (if one didn't count his beloved dog, Redbeard, which Sherlock would count, and didn't delete Victor Trevor, a university friend which Sherlock had wished to be more than a friend, which Sherlock claimed to have deleted but it hadn't really work) Sherlock truly cared about a person and their opinion about him.

How to go about it, however, that drove Sherlock to distraction on some days (and nights). It was not his area, and John's mixed signals in recent months wasn't helping either. Something needed to be happen, Sherlock knew.

That 'something' could be the office Christmas party as the holiday season was approaching.

Oh, Sherlock didn’t want to attend the office party at the beginning of December, but when John had offered to drive him – apparently, his good friend Mike Stamford had burrowed him his car for – again, reason unknown, 'seriously, how could it be that one problem is solved, this man who seemed so ordinary with his beige jumpers, proofed to have another ten problems lying underneath?' – to the venue.

The venue was apparently some old cottage in the greater London area, Oxfordshire or whatever, Sherlock had deleted it. It had been transferred into a bed & breakfast and apparently, one can book the complete building for events. According to office gossip, the owners were a gay couple and everything on the menu was vegan.

While Sherlock was deep in thought to plot out a possibility to maybe make/fake an arrangement for one room with John, preferably with only one bed, 'oh, what would might happen...?', John arrived.

 

“Sorry, I’m late,” shouted John, trying for extra-cheery. “Who’s for fresh air and the open road and the wind on the heath and what-not?”

Startled, Sherlock hurried to say, “That all sounds loathsome to me but I guess I don’t have a choice, do I.”

“Of course, you don’t. Even you cleaned up nice, Mr Holmes, if I might be so bold and say so. Get in rather quickly we need to catch up.”

Sherlock climbed in the passenger’s seat, and almost immediately had his breath snatched away by John Watson’s extremely progressive ideas on acceleration. Thank God, it was getting late and the darkness hide Sherlock’s blush. It irritated Sherlock a great deal; he was a pale man by nature but not one to blush easily – or he had been, before meeting Dr. John H. Watson, ex- military.

Oh, and to think about John’s military past was an even worse idea. Since Sherlock had done his research in early February, it had been impossible to delete the photos of John in uniform in his hard-drive, his brain. Further, he had cleared his search history but he was sure that his brother had spotted it immediately, as well as Sherlock’s attempt to hack into the classified reports about the event that had transformed the man irreversible.

It was unfortunate: In the beginning, Sherlock had wanted to investigate the scares on John’s body for sciences. Now, not even a year later, he wanted to catalogue every inch of the man’s skin and to kiss and nibble and touch... to reassure them both that they were alive, and maybe, to ease John’s pain, and if only for awhile.

“This is your first Office Christmas party,” John observed, as they skidded dexterously round a muddy bend in the lane. This brought Sherlock back to present immediately. That man behind a wheel – dangerous. “I hope you like it. The others all think the office’s parties are great fun... I do not know why, quite. Nothing much happens at them. Anderson and Donovan are even more childish as a rule. Silly games are played. Everyone is cheering and laughing. Greg, of course, will try to not ogle too obviously at Molly Hooper’s outfit which will be extra... special.” He stopped for a second, “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Of course, John.”

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat. “It’s going to be murders this time.”

John caused the horn to give birth to a continuous belching roar, mended their speed by about fifteen or twenty miles and hors, and passed another car as it were in a dream.

“Have you ever played murders?” John asked.

“No, nor yet suicide, but I’m learning,” said Sherlock deadpanned.

John laughed uproariously. ('He laughs like a young boy', Sherlock thought. 'How would you be called back then, John...? No. Johnny? Johnny Watson, how were you like when you were Johnny in Ireland?')

The rest of the drive to the venue of the office Christmas party, Sherlock had entertained both of them with retelling some of the most spectacular cold cases in Britain. When they had reached their destination and extracted themselves from the car, Sherlock mumbled, “I hope I haven’t bored you...” and then adding, with a little wink, as it seemed to be a new habit of him, “to death.”

Both men were giggling like schoolchildren when they entered the building together.

 

Of course, their easy banter and slightly flirting could not continue. Anderson greeted them in the entrance of the hotel and proofed again what an idiot he was when asking, "Are we really going to play the Murder Game?" Only topped by adding, "Sally ought to win it." Their on-off-relationship was so blantant as well as tedious. His Christmas' jumper was appalling as well. And no, Sherlock wasn't thinking all this because Anderson was responsible for John switching back to Dr. John H. Watson, Head of the Dead Letters Office in London.

Sherlock was a man of action - as was John - which ment that they ought to be on the same team, and, ultimatively, they would win. Sherlock was an expert in solving crimes and John would make an adequate assistant, or even partner; no, it would be elementary, that they would be tonight's winner. His plotting was interrupted by Greg who was all too cheery.

“We are going to play A Murder Game... a special brand of our own”, said Greg. “I’ll explain my plans when everyone has got a cocktail. People always imagine one is so much more amusing after one has given them something to drinking.”

“A Game of Murders?” said Doctor Hooper, who had been examining one of the knives on display in the enterance hall. The firelight gleamed on her hair and apparently, this distracted Greg Lestrade so much that he overlooked the unusual interest in knives and how Sherlock as well as John had joined her, as well as Sherlock’s clearly mocking tone, “I feel that Graham has invented subtleties that will completely transform the genre.”

A door on the left opened, and through it came an elderly man carrying a cocktail shaker. He was greeted enthusiastically. The man nodded and smiled genially. He opened the cocktail shaker, and with an air of superb and exaggerated concentration poured out a clear yellowish mixture.

“What do you think of it, Sherlock?” John tried his best at small talk when his personal assistant had taken a nip. Technically, he should be mingling but so far, he had stayed at Sherlock’s side.

“The man is a retired chemist. I might be wrong but going by the looks and the reactions, he might be one of Molly’s old university teachers. Which Georg had hired today to impress her..., which clearly worked? At least, for her.” Sherlock ended his monologue with a wish of his cocktail glass in the direction of Molly and her old mentor who were indeed deep in conversation and had no eyes for Greg who put on a brave face.

“You can’t know if she won’t be pleased and very grateful later, Sherlock. The evening is long, if you catch my meaning. Alas, this was amazing! Seriously, Sherlock, how do you do it?”

Before Sherlock could start one of his elaborated explanations, Greg broke in with announcing: “The dressing-bell goes in five minutes,” he said. “So if you are feeling strong enough, I’ll explain the principle of my edition of the Murder Game.”

“The Game is on”, shouted John (or maybe, it was Sherlock, or both).

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock, looking at his brother, “I’m coming out.”

“Out?”, repeated Mycroft vaguely. “Out where, Sherlock? Out of what?”

“Out into the world. Out of retirement. Out into the season. Out. Dear me,” Sherlock added, “how absurd a word becomes if one says it repeatedly. Out.”

Mycroft laid an official-looking document on the breakfast-table and stared at his younger brother. “What can you be talking about?” he said.

“Don’t play the jester, Mycroft, it doesn’t suit you. I am coming out. Out of the closet. Coming out as queer.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“I don’t think I have, brother dear. I have told mom and dad already, now, you, and I have informed them that I might bring someone home for the holidays. They were delighted.”

“Good Lord,” said Mycroft, “you must lose all your senses. Do you know what this means?”

“I believe I do. It means that I have my own flat in London, 221b Baker Street; Mrs Hudson offers me a special deal. It means that I will have to look for clients or soon they will certainly come to me on their own for help. It means that I will not have to suffer to all the holiday and birthday and all the spontaneous visit of our dear parents on my own soon. It means that in daylight and in candlelight, I will have someone at my side. Moreover, even when I did not, I know who I am. No matchmaking anymore, no meddling, nothing. Just me... a queer man. I wanted to inform you and to know what you think about that, Mycroft, even...”

“I think it is all utterly preposterous. Why can you not be 'yourself' like before?” [5]

“Because I don’t want to hide any longer. However, I never expected you to understand this, Mycroft. Quite ironic, is it not? Sherlock, the drug addict. Sherlock, the freak. Sherlock and his mental health issues. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock... all was fine but Sherlock, the fag?”

“SHERLOCK.”

“Don’t Sherlock me, Mycroft. And do not give me the speech of, ‘John Watson might not return your feelings’ and in particular, your personal favourite motto, 'All hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage’, or if so, do it when I am gone. Good day, blood.”

 

 

* * *

[1] Ngaio Marsh: A Man Lies Dead

It's the opening of the novel. They're not called Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes though ;) Even, of course, Marsh is one of the five writers who mostly shaped our understanding of classic English detective series. Marsh's hero has a love; bi-racial couple as the lead, anyone? Also, Troy (yep, always call female characters - or, you know, THIS one - by her last name which also works as a first name of a male) is so gender-non conforming, hallelujah.

Oh, and real hero? Marsh. Two World Wars, in both they were involved, in the First World War (= Great War), for instance, they drove the ambulance. (Ah, and if you look Marsh up, and stumble across the line that there might be a lost love (man, of course) in WW1 which cannot be confirmed and blabla, but - surprise, surprise - all the other things that are confirmed which I mention in my notes are ... not mentioned. Yeah,... putting people in neat little boxes is pretty strong, in particular, when faced with a person like Marsh who practically ignored them all.)

[2] Ngaio Marsh: Death in a White Tie

In the original, it's a female employee about her female employer but not only Marsh was good at gender bending, or, practically don't give a f*ck. Or, to say it with Benedict Cumberbatch: "I'm very comfortable with my gender fluidity." Marsh walked around in NZ almost always in a suit, made her voice that was already deep even deeper, and had a woman (who she might or might not refer as her wife) as a constant companion all her life. When being in UK, she loved the fedora, also getting driven in fast, flashy cars from one venue to the next.

One of the biographers of Marsh's life is the grandson of Virginia Woolf. Until proven otherwise I'm buying the story that Marsh and Woolf hooked up at one point in the 1920s.

[3] Marsh, A Man Lies Dead.

Fun fact: The murder game? That's one of Marsh's specialties. Marsh was not only one of the first woman to ever attend university (art, btw) but also a huge name in theatre. Marsh practically staged all there is from Shakespeare, while 'Macbeth' remained their favourite. Some people say the reason why New Zealand knows Shakespeare stage productions and a modern understanding of 'The Bard' is all due to Ngaio Marsh. In Churchtown, their birth town, a playhouse is even named in her honour. Anyway... the play-inside-a-play that turned out a murder game for real? That's something of their trademark in the detective series around Inspector Alleyn. From stage performance to entertainment game gone wrong, Marsh basically recreated "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead" for crime in countless variations (obviously, Marsh staged 'Hamlet' as well.)

Oh, and the driver is a woman btw in the original. Because woman can drive fast and flashy cars and love it. However, the line about "laughs like a young boy"? That's in the original. As I say, gender? Labels? Neat and tidy boxes? Not Ngaio Marsh's legacy.

And keep in mind: 'A Man Lies Dead' was Marsh's first (!) crime fiction. It was published in the 1930s. Oh, and one white straight male writer whines about doing research and needing eons to finish his novel? Look up what Marsh had to say about that. Also, if you coming then and claiming but was it successful. Remember, in one day 1 million books were sold. 1 million. And no, not globally, in one (!) city. London. 1960s, as it happens. Maybe, just maybe, diversity isn't the marketing bust. Maybe, just maybe, dear male straight writer you're just not as good (& successful) as you think you are.

(And this could have been straight *ha* out of Marsh' mouth.)

[4] Marsh, Death in a White Tie.

The most epic opening line - yes, it indeed said, "I'm coming out." Sadly, it was cut from the TV series which also was quite good in white- and straightwashing. If you ever feel you want to "hear" how Marsh might have intended their work, I recommend the audiobooks narrated by Benedict Cumberbatch. Of course, there are the "reviews" who want it more "posh" and "more English" - or however people nowadays try to reframe their blatant homophobia and racism - as we all know, Benedict Cumberbatch *can* speak "proper" English as he's not only British, but also English, and - shocking - even happen to be born in London (UK), however... yeah, Ngaio Marsh's work is famous for first introducing diversity in the (English) detective series, and in particular, queer and minorities of what we would today call, 'person of color', and, Native People. And, as if that's not pretty awesome on its own, not as culprit, victims or walking stereotype.

If a certain person from "Midsummer Murders" talked about that the TV series in all its white-and straightness is the last realm of English TV detective series where, you know, "everything is well" blabla. It's not only hate speech but also wrong. Marsh is one of the "Queen of Crime", and the English detective series owns Dame (!) Marsh a lot.

Ngaio is a Maori name, obviously. Marsh was so queer, that no one believed it otherwise. Like QUEER. There are people who don't 100% are sold on Oscar Wilde, Marsh - nope. Her last unfinished novel, "Murder at the morgue" was just this year finished by Stella Duffy who won the Stonewall Award twice already. That's the level of queerness we're talking about.

Another favourite line of mine, another opener, is from 'Artists in Crime': "Am I hart" - which is IMO a neologism of 'hot' and 'hard' - and let me tell you... Benedict Cumberbatch made it sound like that camp sounds straight in comparison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the original intended chapter 2. Sorry, for the confusion. Thanks for sticking with me while I meddle my way through this fix-it.


	3. 1st Year (2007): JOHN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Year in the Life of Dr. John H. Watson, a fool in love who doesn’t want to be a fuck-up anymore but fucks it up anyway, repeatedly, without fucking Sherlock Holmes once. Bummer.

 

> _I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew it had begun.[1]_

_Yes, I am quoting Jane Austen, because I am bewitched, body and soul, and I love, love, love Sherlock Holmes. If this makes me a weaker man, hell, I have a bad leg and a scared shoulder, I have seen wars beyond the battlefield, and I can assure you: war does not make a man out of you, no matter what people might say or think or yell at you, but love? That might do the trick._

_Sherlock Holmes? He is a trickster._

 

_Whom I love most ardently._

 

 

* * *

 

Let's start at the beginning, shall we.

Where did we left off? Oh, yes. January 29th of 2007, when John Watson met Sherlock Holmes for the first time, fall in love, and hired him as his PA.

And as you learned from Sherlock's recount of the year, it did not exactly as they both expected. Their strange meeting was the starting point of further adventures in The Dead Letters Office in London. Sherlock changed a lot over the run of 12 months, what happened to John? Let's hear what John has to say, after all, he's a storyteller.

 

Sherlock Holmes was the best employee John Watson has ever had because Sherlock did exactly what Sherlock wanted. It might not been what John wanted or what John had hired him for but Sherlock Holmes proved to be the perfect fit. The so-called misfit was the perfect fit for John Watson, dead letters, and the Dead Letters Office in London.

One reason for Sherlock's sudden success? Because John Watson was an unusual man.

John didn't expect Sherlock to brew coffee or bring him lunch. Neither, especially, after seeing Sherlock's workspace, did John expect Sherlock to keep John's workspace clean or his appointments in order. To be frank: John was lucky that Sherlock didn't hack into John's computer again. Over the months, Sherlock gave John unwanted advice about tabacco ash (and John isn't even a smoker) and told him on numerous occasion that he found John's wardrobe abhorrent. Regularly, John could discover comments on John's publications that read the following, "Boring!", "Wrong!", "Dull!". One day, Sherlock walked on top of all the furniture in the archive because he claimed that it was the shorter way to get to a case file. Oh, and once, Sherlock got so frustrated that he threw a coffee cup at a wall.

One should state that John Watson is no idiot.

Sherlock Holmes would state that practically everyone is (except him, obviously).

John Watson knew that there were three rational choices: No 1, fire Sherlock Holmes, no 2, never hire him, no 3 transfer him to a better suited position like research or consultant.

John Watson wasn't one for rational choices.

 

The truth was that Sherlock Holmes never was John Watson's PA because he didn't want him as his PA anyway.

John Watson wanted him, Sherlock Holmes.

 

A bit not good, you think?

You bet.

Not that John Watson cared. We was a betting man, and never one to lie to himself: he always knew that he wasn't a good man. Or, what other people call: normal. John Watson was addicted to danger, and Sherlock Holmes? He offered plenty.

 

And as a relationship with Sherlock Holmes would never work (or would be a bit not good), John Watson used on of his skills from his military days: waiting.

While he waited, he practiced one of Sherlock's methods: observe and deduce.

The work life at the Dead Letter Office in London proved to be a rather fascinating study.

 

Because before meeting Sherlock Holmes, John Watson thought that it was normal that Sally Donovan always worked well in the morning and Phillip Anderson always worked well in the evening. Both had been working for almost a decade for the office before John hired Sherlock, and until his appearance, it had been always like that: Sally had worked perfectly in the morning and badly in the evening, and Phillip was the badly one in the morning and the perfect one in the evening. From Monday to Friday, 12 month a year, four hours perfect, four hours sloppy. No excuses. No exceptions. No explanations. Sometime during their lunch break, it always seemed as if they changed personalities. [2]

 

Then Sherlock came.

 

Sherlock did an extraordinary quantity of work. As if long famished for something to work, he seemed to gorge himself on the dead letters. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and nightline, worked by sunlight and by candlelight. John as his new boss should have been quite delighted with his dedication, had he been cheerfully industrious. But Sherlock wrote silently, palely, mechanically. With one exception: when there was no work left, the case closed, no mystery to be solved, then, and only then, he would started shouting: “My brain is starting to rot! I need a case! Give me one!”[3]

 

Another change since Sherlock came, happened with Molly Hooper, one of freelancers of the Dead Letters Office, the one who orignally had been a pathologist. Before she was dedicated to her work, clearly competent, and John Watson had thought of hiring her a couple of times, but she was not “visible”. She would shy away from communication with the clients or the experts involved. The first part was actually a pity because it turned out she had a way with people.

 The clients would still weep, but they would leave the office with their spirits lifted and Molly with a smile. John did not know what her trick was: the offering of tea, or the unassuming cloths that do not draw attention away from the letters. If pressed he would say it was Molly' small question after handling the final letter “Can you tell me more about...” and then her silence until they finished their tale. Sometimes clients would call days, weeks, or even a month later to express their gratitude. Alternatively, tell that they found a photo or heard another anecdote or “could you imagine”, and Molly, quiet unassuming Molly, would sit in the office and listen to their calls. She would hum, and sometimes soothe or smile or once even sob with them, and always, always at one point say, might it be the first or the last words: “I remember.”

 

 

 

> Group Chat: **Molly Hooper** , **Sally Donovan** and **Phillip Anderson** (October 2008)
> 
>  
> 
> **Sally Donovan** : He's a freak.
> 
> **Phillip Anderson** : He's a sociopath.
> 
> **Molly Hooper** : Don’t call him that, both of you. It’s not nice. And not fair. And not true, at least, partly.
> 
> **Sally** : Oh, does someone has a crush on the freak. How sweet.
> 
> **Molly** : No. Of course not...
> 
> **Anderson** : When you’re saying it, Molls.
> 
> **Molly** : Don’t call me that!
> 
> **Anderson** : What? Molls. Molly- Dolly. Dovey- lovey.
> 
> **Molly** : You’re drunk. And you’re both wrong. Sherlock is not like that. And it’s not like that either.

 

 

Originally, John Watson had only a professional project.

Since he had become the Head of the Dead Letters Office in London thanks to Mike Stamford, he had wanted to introduce the public to its absurdity and beauty. The craft of letter writing, the impact of education (yes, even on your very own handwriting), the importance of communication and the multiple reasons for its failure, the untold stories of dead letters, all of this and so much more, I wanted to tell. Because that is the oddity about the nature of our establishment: No matter how advanced our communication and technology, there are always dead letters. Today, you might call them unsent text messages or non-delivered emails. Something went wrong with your upload on social media. And, of course, there are still the classic dead letters. It is a never-ending story.

Before meeting Sherlock Holmes, it had been only an idée fix.

Some scribbled notes, some drafts on his laptop, a better outline.

And a name: Bartleby.

Bartleby is the title of a famous American Short Story by Herman Melville. In the epilogue, the unreliable narrator finally talks about this enigmatic man called Bartleby. After his death, he made some inquiries about his former employee and found out that he used to work in a Dead Letter Office. The narrator tried to make sense of this queer man who started out as an dedicated clerk that turned out to be – how we today call it – clinical depressed. Over the run of some month, his mental health deteriorated so far that in the end, Bartleby preferred not to live anymore. All the narrator is left with is a story to tell about the strangest man he has ever saw or heard of; he, basically, writes another dead letter.

Thanks to Sherlock Holmes, his PA that slowly morphed into a friend and somedays, ever so nearly, seemed have the potential to be a lover, Bartleby could become real.

 

 

 

A man from the museum in Oswestry found the letters. He had wanted to display something that happened to be linked to local history. As it so often happened these days, he went to the internet searched for something and found them on eBay. It is quite common. The same goes for asking for an expertise. We got inquiries on a daily basis. It was a normal day until it became anything but, because “G” and “G” were gay lovers. Gunner Gilbert Bradley and Infantryman Gordon Bowsher; stationed in Oswestry during WW2; two soldiers fighting proud.

 

Somehow, John ended up in the Irish Pub on that day. He needed a drink. His feet had led him here after leaving the office, for the first time since becoming the head, on time. He had ignored the looks, ignored everything and anyone. Normally, John tried to avoid the Irish Pub, which is easy as it was not close.

 

Greg, on-duty, Gregory Lestrade, Head of the human resources department of the Dead Letters Office in London, and off-duty, short Greg and a good mate of John Watson, found John far too early for his liking. Greg herded himin the corner, close to the door, where he had sat and nursed a drink. Plush chair, stuffy old thing, god how John had tried to hate it. It was worse enough that he could pick a microbrew and knew its history before he had taken a sip. That he could tell a tale or two about the landscape spotted on the postcards hanging from the walls; John knew which were photoshopped; oh, and yes, some of the lands were indeed that green, and oh, how John love and hated it; all of it, and most of it, Johnny.

When Greg spotted him, John was already drunk enough to come up with some Irish swear words and god, did John hated it, that Johnny blended in the crowd of locals. This Irish Pub was not one for the tourists; it was one for the Irish, for people like Johnny Watson.

Anyway, Greg did not want to talk about the letters or Dr. John H. Watson having suddenly a hint of an Irish accent, which would be bad no, Greg wanted to talk about Sherlock.

Apparently, Sherlock had reacted odd or he remained in the office or something; to be frank: it was all a bit foggy.

“Can’t you put him in line... a bit, at least?”

“Why are you under the impression that he will listen to me? Because I am his boss? Sorry, Greg, but that ship has sailed...”

 

This was not him, Dr. John H. Watson, talking. Maybe it was John Watson, maybe it was the old John Watson, maybe even because he was in the Irish Pub, Johnny. Johnny Watson, the one he kept hidden for reasons. Johnny is gone, John left Ireland all those years ago, but on days like this, John Watson thought that he was not dead after all.

Greg didn't know about Johnny; Sherlock however, John couldn't tell.

 

John Watson left him there, Greg, in the Irish Pub, alone with his beer. Alternatively, maybe Johnny Watson yelled at him and they were both thrown out. Fuck, John couldn’t remember.

Even today, John Watson cannot recall how the night ended. Probably, it ended with far too much alcohol from a fucking country he wanted to fucking forget. Even it never is, was and been the Irish’s fault that one of their own is such a fucking faggot.

A fucking queer who could not forget neither this and that man nor those men and their letters. Fuck, fuck, fuck was all that he could think that night when John blended into Johnny, and the lines blurred between the present and the past lovers.

 _I can see or I imagine I can see, what your mother and father's reaction would be... the rest of the world have no conception of what our love is - they do not know that it is love…_ [4]

  

 

* * *

 

 

 

The way downwards started slowly.

The first incident happened in the shower.

John Watson was still living in the bedsit in a terrible part of the city, just as he had been when he had bumped into Mike Stamford. These days, John had the money to move onto his own apartment or get at least a flat share with someone as the office was in zone 1. Greg Lestrade hinted at it, Mike Stamford nagged and Bill Murray wanted to set him up, but John remained stubborn.

Or, how he called it “Later”, and privately, in his mind: ‘Laterz’.

 

 

> II. Text exchange between **John Watson** and **Bill Murray** , one of John's old army mates (November 2008)
> 
>  
> 
> **Bill Murray** 09.21 pm
> 
> Hi mate. Coming to the pub tonight?
> 
> **Bill Murray** 08:11 pm
> 
> John. We’re watching the game at the weekend. Interested?
> 
> **Bill Murray** 10:09 pm
> 
> John. What’s up? Haven’t heard from you in a while.
> 
> **Bill Murray** 10:14 pm
> 
> John? At least, answer with y/n. I see that you receive & read the text, you know.
> 
> **John Watson** 10:51 pm
> 
> Sorry mate. Not in the mood. Everything is fine. Don’t worry.

 

John knew that he sounded harsh, curt, and dismissive, but his mantra these days was: ‘If not later, when?’[5] It was later in the year; it was the days during which summer is clinging on, but the autumn was knocking at our doors already; it was the in-between days.

John felt similar. He was drifting apart.

Unknown to him, it would not be long until Sherlock would start with “I prefer not to”. These days, John had a sense that he preferred Sherlock Holmes, if one wanted to be poetic about it. After all, as stated in one of the earlier paragraphs; John Watson is a story teller, it’s part of the Irish soul.

Yet, he wanted to make a move.

Every day, he gave himself a pep talk. Come morning, John Watson would stand in his bathroom, stare at his alien-looking face, and would say, “today’s going to be a good day.” Some days, he was close to believing that it might work.

John Watson was unaware that his time was running out, just like the moonlight was fading outside.

When the first incident occurred, it had not been winter yet, and there would be another year ahead, but it was borrowed time.

It might have been September 2008, not that it mattered in the end.

Let us say it had been September.

End of the month, maybe.

It had been an early morning; the night had been restless and only partly the sticky heat that radiated from the day was to blame. At dawn, John had tossed my thin blanket away and headed for the shower. He would make the best of the day, stubborn as he was; ‘soldier-on’, ‘it is what it is, but some extra quality time in the shower might do me good’ --- that were the thoughts spinning in his sleep-fogged mind. ‘Loosen the stiff muscles first and then… yes’.

He hoped that maybe, finally, some good-old wank in the shower would give him the extra boost to ask Sherlock out for a coffee or something similar, because, after all, Sherlock was suppose to bring him coffee and not the other way round.

‘Maybe, the session in the shower would give me the extra boost’, so to speak, to maybe, finally, got to him and say, “Coffee?” Alternatively, something else because Sherlock was supposed to bring me coffee as my PA and not the other way round.

(‘Not that Sherlock ever did that’, and just thinking of him had put a smile on John’s face.)

One second John had Sherlock on his knees.

The next second, James looked up at him.

One second John had a hard one.

The next second his hand shook and not because of arousal.

One second the water was clear.

The next second his fucked up mind told him that the water was ruby red.

  

 

* * *

 

 

It happened on one of the rare sunny days of October. When the city was buzzing with people, for shopping, for enjoyment, for distraction. It was not that cold so that you run from one shop to another, bags in hand and list in mind. It was so pleasant that you smile more to the strangers passing by and maybe even stopped for a minute to help a tourist to head in the right direction for that spot, and that sight, and shows and songs and everything was nice.

John Watson was sitting in a café that was part of a bigger complex, shopping mall, you might say. Shops, some offices, a food court, etc. It was a Friday, long week.

And in all those rooms, filled with people and things and dreams and plans and everything, the announcement broke in: very calm, steady fast, professional. There had been a bomb warning.

Keep calm.

Do not rush.

Follow the instructions.

Keep calm.

Keep calm.

Keep calm.

The world around was anything but. The people rushed. There was push and pull. There was police and medical teams and security, security, security.

Keep calm.

Keep calm.

Keep calm.

The announcement went on and on and on.

John Watson was transported because he was transformed already.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and years before. Not even during his first tour, or his first day in basic training, or when he first killed a man. Or when he thought he would die, too. John Watson always knew that he would end up as a soldier because it was part of his DNA.

Captain John Watson was born a soldier.

When Sherlock Holmes 38 years after his birth would deduce that he has a military background, he would be right (of course, he was). Still, Sherlock Holmes would not know how right he was until they would move to 221b Baker Street together a year later. Months later still, he would snoop around and would find boxes under John’s bed and Sherlock would find the dog tags of another Watson who had been serving Queen and Country and would realize that history was repeating itself. With one exception: his Watson was a doctor too.

Therefore, when the announcements was repeating themselves, John Watson was on alert.

Military service will never leave you.

You will never erase the memories in your head, you can never escape the sounds, the noise, the smell, and the texture and you will never be sure what you feel, remember, and see is fiction or truth, your story or someone’s long gone. Because lines and life blur on the edges and war is skating on the edges.

A military man does not need combat uniform, dog tags, guns and weapons and army rifle, to detect others in the crowd. It is not the cane, the scared shoulder, or the bad leg that tells you the story. The nightmares will not give you more insight. You can read the file, spy or pay the therapist, if you can (and do not care about laws or bend them because you are more or less running the British Government). However, the truth is, you do not need to be Sherlock Holmes to detect and deduce one’s military background.

Everyone who has been to war can do it.

 

The weather decreased like John’s mood over the next couple of days. It had been late autumn for quite some time, and finally, it seemed that the temperature had caught on. They dropped overnight, unexpected and unwelcome. A cold wind blew through the city of London and everybody tried to stay indoors as long as possible. Especially in the early morning and evening hours, the wind howled like a man in pain. Loud and sharp and nightmarish. Some nights, John woke up from it, and more often than not, it accompanied him like a long lost lover’s memory on his way home from the dead letter office. 

 

It went further downhill during November. Most days, it rained; the sky was almost black, and the wind, or more, the storm, was hauling around the city. John’s dreams were scattered with memories from the death, and when he rose up to face the day, his bed clothes were damp and his limbs ached already awful. One look out of my pitiful apartment did not improve my mood, and when in my griming stubbornness I made my way to the office, heavily leaning on my cane, I was already close to explode.

The short ride with the Tube was even more annoying than ever: the noise, the smell, the mass of people. Every street musician seemed to play out of tune, every toddler seemed to scream, and every teenage girl seemed to giggle. ‘Did the boys really have to comment on their video game that loudly?’ An umbrella hit him, a trolley from a commuter almost wiped him off his feet, and the announcements of CCTV in action were driving him mad. Even the advertisements seemed to make fun of him. Everyone looking pretty, and attractive, and successful,... and he, John H. Watson, formerly Captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was making his way through the anonymous masses, battered and bruised, inside- out, pronounced limb because of the sinking temperatures and the general dampness, hair turning grey and he was feeling so, so, lonely.

 

The holiday season approached and with it, the constant buzz about miracles, spirit, and jolly good times. John hated it. Sometimes he was not sure if he had secretly turned into the Grinch overnight.

He woke up the morning after the Christmas party at work on the sofa. He hadn’t want to go there but Greg had practically blackmailed him even his best mate ended up mostly snogging with Molly Hooper if John remembered last night events correctly which was a bit difficult as a lot of eggnog, punch and mulled cider had been involved.

John had went home alone. Apparently, he had not made it into my bed. Crumbled sheets at the feet, extra blanket formed to a roll, only one cushion. “State of a (non-existent) relationship, right here”, Sherlock would say.

Sherlock would not be like John’s past lovers.

Sherlock would be like a cat or maybe like an octopus.

Sherlock would chide him for my blatant analogies and then starts a monologue about the different species of octopus. “Fascinating creatures, John!”

In the last second, John could catch himself before drawing one tentacle on his back with his own fingers. He might be pathetic (and hangover, for sure) but that was far too low of a bar.

It was the moment in which John Watson realized that it was more than fucking for him. He wanted to fuck Sherlock Holmes since he first saw him. He might have been falling for him for months. Sure, he still wanted to yell at him, and he was still shit as a PA, but from now on?

“John Watson and him, only platonic?” no, that was the moment in which I knew that it was more than fucking. I want to fuck him since I saw him. I might have been falling for him for months. Oh, and I still want to yell at him, make no mistake. He is still shit as a personal assistant. However, in this moment?

John’s train of thought went something like this: ‚ Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck. Fakery fuck.’

John Watson knew that he was great in fucking things up as well as being a fuck up.

He was no fool.

However, apparently, he was a fool in love.

‘Well, fuck me.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Around this time, Sherlock concluded four cold cases. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important task, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged John Watson called Donovan, Anderson and Molly from the next room, meaning to place the four letters in the hands of my three experts, while John should read from the original case files. Accordingly, Donovan, Anderson and Molly Hooper had taken their seats in a row, each with a document in hand, when John called to Sherlock to join the team meeting.

“Sherlock! Quick, we’re waiting.”

John heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon Sherlock appeared standing at the threshold of the office.

“What is it?”

“The letters from the four last cases. We are going to examine them before contacting the clients.”

John hold the documents in question up in the air. Not that Sherlock should need the reminder. He was the one solving most of the cases, anyway.

“I would prefer not to.”

It seemed like Sherlock Holmes intended to disappear, probably to go back to his work. John was having none of that.

“Why do you refuse?”

“I would prefer not to.”

With any other man, John Watson should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from his presence. However, there was something about Sherlock that not only strangely disarmed him, but also in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted him. John began to reason with Sherlock.

“These are your own letters we are about to examine. It will save us time because one examination will answer for your four cases. It is common practice. Every expert is bound to help examine his case. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!”

“I prefer not to,” Sherlock replied in his haughty posh tone.

“You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a request made according to common practice and common sense?”

Sherlock Holmes gave him a look as if John Watson was the idiot. John was having none of it; after all, he had been to war. There, he had faced more trying problems than one Sherlock Holmes at least that had been his thoughts at the time. Therefore, John tried to reason with him.

“Donovan,” said John Watson, after all, the Head of the Dead Letters Office in London, “what do you think of this? Am I not right?”

“With permission, sir,” said Donovan, with her blandest tone, “I think that you are.”

“Anderson,” said John, “what do you think of it?”

“I think you should kick him out of the office.”

“Molly,” said John, willing to enlist the in both parts most rational and emotional new addition to the team, “what do you think of it?”

“I think, sir, he is a little bored,” replied Molly with a grin.

“You hear what they say,” said John, turning towards the stubborn man, “battle up and do your duty.”

However, Sherlock offered no reply. John pondered a moment in sore perplexity. However, the work was more important. He determined again to postpone the consideration of this dilemma to his future leisure. With a little trouble, the team made out to examine the papers without Sherlock, though at every page or two, Donovan deferentially dropped her opinion that this proceeding was quite out of the common. While Anderson, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out between his set teeth occasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn man behind the computer screen. [6]

 

The urge to punch Sherlock (or to hit and then to kiss and then to fuck him in the office) only worsened when this habit increased over the day. Sherlock’s standard answer seemed to be “I prefer not to”.

Looking up a term online, double- checking a source, calling a client or answering one, communication with everybody in general, besides “Yes” (2 times), “No” (20 times), his new personal favourite was by far “I prefer not to” (countless times). And no, going for coffee was only mentioned once. Because food or drink, anything what human being would call vital, was just transport to Sherlock Holmes. It seemed to be that on that particular day Sherlock Holmes declared everything else beside his work (and only his!) in the same category: Irrelevant.

 

 

* * *

 

John Watson felt that he needed to do something.

He was not proud of what he did.

He prefer it to be different but it happened.

He was on edge; furious, pent up energy, frustrated, horny, angry, worried, desperate, lost… all of this and so much more, and he needed an outlet.

He, John Watson, needed a fuck to feel less like everything is fucked-up.

He knew, that it would fuck it up further - and yet, he did it.

 

It was the old John Watson. Not Johnny, of course, but the old John Watson. The one he didn't want to be anymore but who is a part of him anyway.

The one who first went swearing,

then drinking,

and when all was lost, fucking.

 

John Watson went to a gay bar. There, he had a mindless fuck with an anonymous stranger. He tried to not to say his name when I came - cut off, last second, “Sher-”. 

 

 

* * *

  


Some days passed, Sherlock acted as if nothing unusual had occurred ('Did you not deduced that I let some stranger suck my cock in a dirty alley and imagine it was you?'). However, his late change in behaviour led John to mentoring him more closely ('I picked him because he had longer hair and I could grasp it to hold myself up while the orgasm shook me.'). John observed that Sherlock never went to dinner; indeed that he never went anywhere ('He did not smell like you. Expensive shampoo is it. Posh git.'). Yet, John had never known Sherlock to be outside of their shared office ('So damn sexy.') He was a constant figure in the corner ('Fuck, fuck, fuck.').

Every morning, at eleven o'clock sharp, John Watson noticed that Molly Hooper would adance Sherlock, as if silently beckoned thither by a gesture invisible to me where I sat. The woman would then leave the office, and reappear with some fried noodles or other fast food. With lots of coffee, and something that looks a lot like nicotine patches while he remained as ever, a fixture in the office. If that were possible – Sherlock Holmes became still more of a fixture than before ('It is you, it is always you. _'_ ).

 

 

> Text exchange between **Molly Hooper** and **Sherlock Holmes** (Januar 2009)
> 
>  
> 
> **Molly Hooper** 10:05 am
> 
> You’re sad when you think John does not see you.
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 10:06 am
> 
> It’s fine.
> 
> **Molly Hooper** 10:07 am
> 
> No, it’s not “fine”, Sherlock. Let me help you.
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 10:07 am
> 
> I do not require your help, Dr. Hooper.
> 
> **Molly Hooper** 10:07 am
> 
> You do, Sherlock. We both know that you do.

 

 

'What was to be done? He would to nothing in the office; why should he stay here?', John thought or forced himself to think. He claimed that he felt sorry for Sherlock Holmes. John Watson spoke less that truth when he said that, he occasioned him uneasiness. The truth was that John Watson was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. While Sherlock Holmes became more and more obsessed with dead letters each day, John Watson became more and more obsessed with this man.

And one afternoon, the evil impulse in him mastered him, and the following events changed their relationship forever. [7]

 

It was January the 29th of 2008.

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Inspired by Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice  
> [2] Bartleby, p. 17f.  
> [3] Phillip Anderson and Sally Donovan are partly based on Melville’s characters, Nippers and Turkey. Molly Hooper is loosely based on Melville’s Ginger Nut (see Bartleby, p. 6 - 15). Obviously, they share some character traits and looks from BBC SHERLOCK. After all, it’s a fusion.  
> [4] Gilbert and Gordon, Then All The World Could See; letter from February 12 1940, Park Grange.  
> [5] André Aichman, Call me by your name, p. 3 and the use of the section name “If not later, when?”  
> [6] Bartleby, p. 21-23.  
> [7] Bartleby, p. 29.


	4. 29 January 2008

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally kiss. And yet, it remains true: 'if we had met in a different way, you would have loved me but everything that has happened...'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies,
> 
> the truth is that I had it in the drafts on Ao3 since August, 4th. I simply forgot to post it. Anyway, better late than never, right? Put out your hankies and kleenex, this one is... one for the heart. (I cried so much while writing and editing.)
> 
> Have a wonderful Sunday and thanks for your patiences, with me, the boys & everything.
> 
> Ade

In the doorway, he met John.

Sherlock heard his own voice saying: “Hello. You are going to save my life. It is nearly five o’clock. Six hours sleep in the last 54 hours is nothing for us hard-working people, but for some reason I feel sorry for myself. Will you take coffee or a tea, or possibly both, for God’s sake, say you will.”

“Very well, we shall go.”

“My flat, until you object to that.”

“I’m not some debutante,” said John, “I’m not troubled for my reputation.” He winked at Sherlock as if his reply should be a joke or a cultural reference or whatever that Sherlock should have understood. He did not, not that he cared, and surprisingly, neither did John. John simply added “Your flat let it be.”

On the way Sherlock was so filled with astonishment that John agreed to be alone with him that he fall into a trance out which he only awoke when he pulled the car in front of his own flat. When they were indoors, he was delighted to hear John say, “This is nice, very nice indeed” and to see him pull off his coat and to set on a chair before the fireplace. He even got so far and to snatch up a pillow for himself.

“Should we have a fire,” Sherlock asked, “please, say yes, it’s not a warm day.”

“Yes, let’s…” agreed John.

“Will you light it while I see about tea?”

He went out of the room and gave Mrs Hudson a rather confused list of orders. And when he returned, there were was John Watson, in front of the fire, strangely familiar.

“It’s a nice room, this.”

John waved around, his aim unclear, but Sherlock understood anyway. He nodded shortly. Then, he went and put a box of letters on one of the already overflowing tables and put off his coat as well. John turned and saw THE letter Sherlock had pinned at the wall.

“Is that…”

“Oh, yes,” confirmed Sherlock. “It is the letter, the one that started it all.”

Silently, as if there was a secret bond between them, they started to reread the now familiar lines. Instantly, as if it was their letters, their story, their love, Sherlock took over Gilbert’s part and John voiced Gordon. For a flicker of a moment, they were not unsung anymore, they came to live, bright and full of hope, fierce and proud, two men out of time:

 

> _“Darling, Darling”, Gilbert said, “We are in a pretty ghastly time, I know. But we are in for it together, my dearest love. I want to be with you, always, and it is all going to be okay and we have each other and love each other more. Won’t we? Won’t we?”_
> 
> _“Yes”, clinging to him, Gordon said, “we will, won’t we. So that something rather wonderful will come out of it all.”_
> 
> _“I promise you, it will”, Gilbert said, “You will see. As long as we together.” “That’s right,” Gordon, said, “Being together is everything.”_ [1] _  
> _

 

For a minute or two, there was silence, not awkward or tense; it was companionable. As if they had been old friends, even maybe more than that, life partners, incarnations, going back decades or even centuries, and that it had been always been like that: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in 221b Baker Street in London, sitting in two chairs in front of a fireplace. Then John cleared his throat and asked “How did you get hold of the letter?”

“I got someone to duplicate it for me. Do you remember when we met?”

“We had a row, didn’t we?”

“We did. In fact,” Sherlock said, “there is scarcely an occasion in which we have met when we haven’t got a row. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I guess I’m rather defensive.”

“For a rather long time I rather thought you simply disliked me,” Sherlock heard himself admitting. His voice sounded odd to himself, quiet and unsure, a mirror of his inner workings.

“No, you rather got under my guard.”

John looked at anything but Sherlock. His hands were balled into fists. He was very different away from a steady soldier; he reminded Sherlock more of a bolting horse; always ready to run. It made him agitated in return. Reckless, as well. Since their first strange meeting, there had been a push and pull. It drove Sherlock mad (among other things).

“If it hadn’t been for our job, things might have gotten better,” said Sherlock. “You do not love me. And why should you. I tell you what: I have been always terribly frightful of the whole business. Love and so on.”

“The physical side?”

“Much more than that. The whole business. The breaking down of one’s own reserve.”

Their eyes met. John looked at him with a determination that made Sherlock’s heart turn over. Sadly, they were interrupted by Mrs Hudson who brought in the tea. She had – Sherlock saw it at first glance – rushed out to Speedy’s downstairs and got them his favourite biscuits. The one with chocolate. Sherlock’s face got all flushed red. However, John exclaimed, “Biscuits. Oh, what a delight.”

Mrs Hudson smiled all proud and excused herself.

When they have nearly finished, John said, “I must go.”

“Not yet. I should commit a hideous impropriety and make the request of a second set of eyes this evening. …

“Ah, back to business again.”

“No, John, you don’t understand…”

“Oh, I do…”

And before Sherlock could explain, reply, whatever, John had pulled down his hand and put it against his lips. Everything Sherlock had ever felt, every frisson had just be a preparation for this moment when his hand melted against his lips. Presently, he found himself leaning over him. He still held his hand like a talisman. Sherlock took John’s face between his hands and kissed John, hard, on his mouth. Sherlock felt that he came alive under his lips. Then he let John go.

“Don’t think I should ask you to forgive me,” Sherlock said. “You have no right to let this go by, John. You are damn to particular to do it by half. I’m your man and you know it.” [2]

They stared at each other.

In the end, John broke the silence. Sherlock registered that John was forming sentences with his mouth but all was muffled. He felt like being underwater, or lost in space, or — he did not know, and normally, he would hate it because he hated not knowing. Tonight however, all was different.

“When I said that I would come, I thought that it would be all peaceful and impersonal. Professional, you see. You looked so worn and troubled. And it was so easy to do just this. Now, see what has happened. The sky is void and the stars were fallen. I fell as if I run the world in the last hour. Blasted, is this the Irish soul that speaks out of me? Damn, Sherlock, since meeting you, you have made my job 100% more difficult. You are in my thought as well as my heart. And now, I need to go home and we both need think that over.”

Sherlock’s eyes blazed. I could see that they were full of tears. I bit my lip.

“It’s alright. Shut up, John. It’s all right (it’s not).”

They were silent for a moment. Then, Sherlock went down on his knees to be on John’s side and to be at the same height as him. They crouched there. John’s heart was beating secretly with Sherlock’s. Everything, smell, sound, stimulants, of the room vanished. They were alone in the world. Sherlock turned helplessly into John’s arms.

“You mustn’t think...”

“I know – if we had met in a different way, you would have loved me but everything that has happened your thoughts of me are spoilt. My job has become in-between us.”

“First, I thought you dislike me, then, I thought you indifferent and I got a little hope.”

“Oh, never. It is a great moment for me, this. Don’t misunderstand... so nearly.”

“So very nearly.” [3]

Before John could finish his sentence, Sherlock interrupted him.

“You should go, I’ll get you a taxi”, Sherlock said shakily. “I want to think. I promise you that I did not believe that you loved me or that I love you, if it makes any difference (I thought it does not, anymore, if it ever did. I do not know.) Whenever we met, you made some sort of reference of you being my boss. I’m just plain frightened and that’s a fact.”

When John had left, Sherlock remained standing in front of the fireplace, looking rather small. Lost.

 

 

* * *

 

[1] This is not an actual dialogue by Gilbert & Gordon, but a fictional lovers meeting written by Ngaio Marsh in her crime novel, "Scales of Justice" around the same time. The lovers are called Mark and Rose, - but those are minor details. Love is eternal; and Marsh is a genius of a writer, don't you agree.

[2] Slightly inspired by Ngaio Marsh's "Death in a White Tie". Basically, whenever a line doesn't sound so smooth, it's probably me. The hand holding like a talism, for instant. Further, they even added the "alpha male" in the end - but let's say it with "The Newly Discovered Casebook of Sherlock Holmes": some words will become a whole new meaning in the future...^^ Jokes and meta aside: Marsh is pretty great for gender studies, there's some pretty critical thinking in her work, and all of this in the mid-1930s.

[3] "So very nearly", - I owe Marsh a drink or two, this one is from the excellent, "Artist in Crime".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Any comment is appreciated. Kudos are love.


	5. 2nd Year (2008): SHERLOCK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beginning is Where it Ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to "Then All The World"! It's been a while...
> 
> Fair Warning: It's Sherlock's POV in extreme. And yes, I agree with Moftiss (here) that a) it's bloody tricky to write and b) not sure how Benedict Cumberbatch managed to speed-speak. Also, Sherlock's mental health is derailing in this chapter, so, ANGST ahoi.
> 
> Lastly, sorry that it took me so long. I promise to do better in 2019!

Run an experiment.  
Results were as predicted.  
Mrs Hudson was not pleased.  
Deleted her shouting.  
John will apologize on our account.

 

Forgot apparently to eat and drink for a weekend.  
John was away for a conference in Newcastle.  
It seems that nutrition does have a purpose.  
When I eat and drink, John does not shout at me and calls me an idiot.  
He left me for the weekend.  
It is clearly his fault.

 

The fridge is not for thumbs.  
  
The carpet should not be burnt.  
  
Shooting at the wall is a bit not good.  
  
Eyeballs in the microwave are unhygienic.  
  
Looking for John’s gun is not safe.

 

John likes my violin concerts. He has not found out yet that I pick the titles with intent.  
Idiot.  
Have to continue to play. One day, he will understand.  
After all, he is not all together stupid.

 

 

You should not wake people with nightmares.  
Or you should not run your personal study with people who have nightmares.  
Irrelevant.  
John was trashing in his sleep. He was screaming. There were tears.  
I overrule protocol.  
It was unacceptable.

 

Boring. Dull. Tedious. Boring.

 

I cannot sleep.  
I cannot think.

 

My parents video-chatted with John. It was a disaster. They want to meet him.  
Why is he not scared off?  
I do not like not knowing.

 

Alone protects me.  
Caring is not an advantage.  
Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side.  
Sentiment.  
  
I am not a hero.  
I am terribly human.  
  
Mycroft is an overbearing brother.  
He is the hardware. I am the software.  
I am not a machine.  
Do I have a master password?  
There is a virus in the data.  
My mind is a hard drive.  
Why can I not delete certain things?  
Mycroft used to be my backup plan.  
  
   
  
   
  
One should not embark a new relationship in the two years after a therapy.  
I hated rehab.  
The people were so dull. And all their boring reasons for taking chemical enhancements.  
So predictable.  
Every addiction hides an underlying problem.  
Bla bla.  
How can I bribe Mycroft to get me access to John’s medical report?  
His therapy is clearly not working.

 

The cold front made John’s war injuries ache.  
Will mention a trip to the spa.  
Tomorrow will be ideal, I think.

 

I do not have mood swings.  
John has good and bad days.  
There is a difference.

 

How can I make the voices stop?  
People think too loud.

 

The stimuli provided by John petting my hair while watching the boring TV show on telly together were intriguing.  
Require further data.  
I do not like James Bond. Even the newest looks a bit like John.  
That is helpful.

 

Mummy called John a “nice Gentleman”.  
Will it never end?

 

The café downstairs, Speedy’s, has a picture of a waterfall on their fridge.  
A place in Switzerland, apparently.  
Reichenbach.  
Odd people.[1]

 

John.  
John?  
John!  
John John John  
JOHN

 

"You walked around our flat in a sheet?"  
"Yes."  
"Did you wear any pants?"  
"No."  
"Okay..."  
"Problem?"

 

I introduced John to the Secrets of Chinese Food.  
How to spot a good restaurant.  
I could almost predict all fortune cookies.

 

 

There is a Chinese Circus in town.  
Maybe I will get us tickets.  
Could be nice.

 

John is irrational.  
John is irritating.  
John is intriguing.

 

John’s eye colour is not exactly blue.

 

John’s father was a soldier.  
John's grandfather was a soldier.  
John's great-grandfather was a soldier.  
His great-grandfather fought in Afghanistan, too.  
A family of soldiers.  
All were called John.  
My John came home to London.

 

 

A doctor can name all the bones in a body.  
John claims that he can name them while breaking them.  
John is better at multitasking than predicted.

 

John prefers the blue silk dressing crown and the purple shirt.

 

My sock index is NOT up to debate.

 

 

We have a usual at the Thai Express.

 

 

Slept.  
Still tired.  
Slept some more.  
John said I should get up.  
Too tired.

 

 

The cars rush by.  
The lights of the street lamps hurt.  
The noise, oh my god, the noise.  
People. People. People.

 

 

"Shut up!"  
\---  
"Be quiet. Don’t move. Don’t think. Don’t breathe."  
\---  
"Shut up, all of you."  
"There’s nothing wrong with me. Do understand? I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I’ve never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone."

 

 

 _In the night when you turn to me_  
 _In a night of broken dreams_  
 _I open my heart to you_  
 _And let it sing, let it sing, let it sing_  
  
_You never saw me leave._  
 _I did not make a sound._  
 _I was too proud to show you my tears._  
 _Someday you will understand my reason for leaving._  
 _One day I will return._ [2]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics are from "My Irish Bonnie Lass". 
> 
> The story about the fridge is true; sounds crazy but it's true. In the "Speedy's", or, more the café that is the stand-in for Speedy's in London, the fridge has indeed the iconic Reichenbach Fall picture on it. Which proves again: the best stories are written by real life.


	6. 2nd Year (2008): JOHN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End is Where It Begins. This is the 2nd year, from John's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to "Then All The World"...,
> 
> this chapter is the mirror chapter to ch5 - as you've surely realized already, all years of Sherlock and John's shared (love) life, are told by them seperately - aka the year of the two men living together in 221b. Also, 2008 features the (aftermath) of their first kiss. Basically, it's more than 5k of two idiots in love who refuse to speak about the elephant in the room while being so married in 221b. 
> 
> However, here, in ch6 - the current chapter - you get more insight in why Sherlock is so... peculiar in ch5. 
> 
> Prepare for the angst, the angry wanking, more making out in the office, Alan Turing, and Mrs Hudson who ships them so hard. Also, Mycroft. 
> 
> Long story short: Welcome to 2008, the second (John's POV)!

They all knew. They did not say anything, but they all known.

(They had to. It could not be all in John’s head.)

The first time John entered the staff canteen at the Dead Letter Office after kissing Sherlock Holmes in 221b, his fellow officers set down their cups and cutlery, all the better to stare at him. It felt like there are hundreds of eyes on him, making something as easy as choosing between a bacon roll and an omelette an impossible task.

(No, it had to be real. It was not a flicker of his own imagination, of his own failing mind, of everything. It could not be all in John’s head.)

John had chosen to pretend that nothing had happened. However, it was clear to him, as he picked up a bottle of water, that they knew his, their, history. He ploughed silence before him wherever he went and trails of whispers in his wake.

(He heard them. He saw them. It had to be real.)

He carried his tray to the counter and imagined seeing himself through his colleagues’ eyes. Even if they had the right version of the facts, it had been hard to process what he was doing here. Going back to work had been John’s choice, but it was been a tough one.

(He would not be struggling if it had not real. The kiss. The love confession. The almost-nearly, so close, but so far away. Otherwise, why would he carry on as if nothing had happen? No, it had to be real.)

As far as John could tell, his pretence of ‘all is fine’ helped. He kept his head up high, and he walked with a hint of military pacing. Today, he might not wear a uniform but he had all the bearings of his past.

(Sherlock was real. He was real. It all really has happened.)

Resigning would have meant sacrificing his pension, and with a good of fifteen years’ service left in him, that was not an option. Further, it didn't look good on a C.V. to switch positions so quickly, and what reason should he give with handing in his reassignment? The truth but nothing but the truth? Human Resources Department would have his head. Consent or not, lovers or not, they were boss and employee. John was no idiot in that regard.

However, there was more to it than money and facing Greg. It did not feel right to leave. He had never told anyone this but it felt like that way, he would be able to put his demons behind him. John understood now what James had meant by atonement. By serving another community, other soldiers, he could atone for what John had done to Sherlock and all the other lost soldiers in battle.

Leaving the job, taking a sabbatical, all the other things that people told him to do: none of these was an option. Not two years ago, not one year ago, not today. This action today, and all days that would follow, is a massive _fuck you_ to all that happened.  When John had been shot, it had been the end until it was not. He won’t make this mistake twice.

(The war was real. His battle was real. His struggle now has to be real. All has to be real.)

He got no appetite: he opted for a cereal bar in the end and ate it on his own at a corner table, his back to the room.

It took another long ten minutes that felt like an eternity until Molly joined him. John was long finished but with company at the table, he forced himself to get up and pick something more substantial to eat. Fish and chips were not healthy in the end, but sometimes one needed comfort food. When he came back, Greg had turned up as well. Homemade luncheon and Sherlock could probably deduce more than everyone wants to hear about his state of marriage from the way the sandwich was cut. John prayed silently that they would not ask where his shadow is today, and, surprisingly, they remained quiet.

“Thanks for joining me,” said John 20 minutes later, folding his napkin and getting to his feet. “But I should be getting back.”

Molly and Greg led him into the hallway. “No rest for the wicked.” Molly nodded through an open doorway to a study where files were piled high on a table.[1]

 

They would all be working through the night.

All except Sherlock who for the first time since he was hired as John's PA did not show up at work.

 

It was well past midnight when John finally tumbled into bed. Even in his sleep, close to dawn, some half-hour before his alarm would go off, and thoughts of Sherlock haunted him.

 

_How Sherlock end up in my private space, I have no idea._

_One second, he was at the door, the next second he was caging me to the wall. Or, something, somewhere, I cannot recall everything because I am not Sherlock Holmes, and sometimes I think with my dick, and this situation? Oh, hell, yes._

  
_I do not know who started it, maybe I finally snapped, or Sherlock put his money where his mouth is, quite literal, because we kissed. To be honest, it was a fine line that we might or might not jump over quite some time, to making out._

_In a heartbeat, all was lost._

_We fall into each other._

_Fingers reaching for each other, grabbing, touching, aching._

_A kiss, another, a third, all were hard and greedy and so passionate as well as desperate._

_Our tongues met for the first time, a new taste, and we tried to master the game, and have found each other’s master already._  
_There was no time for second-guessing, no time for reassuring, and no time for asking for boundaries, or sexual past and preferences._

 _We kissed and kissed and kissed some more._  
_We grabbed, pushed and pulled, touched, almost buried our fingers in everything that we could reach._

_Closer, closer still, until we were so close that that we could feel how hard we made each other._

_It seemed natural, was natural, to start a rhythm._  
_For the kissing, for the touching, for the motion of their bodies._

_Then, it was not enough anymore; there were new places to discover, new noises to register; all was new and hot and glorious; and it was never enough._

_Until... Sherlock tried to get rid of my shirt._

_Everything just stopped... until he registered that I had stopped._

 

John Watson' woke up with a hammering heart. His cock was hard, pulsing, ready to burst. While he spilled his seed, tears were streaming down his face.

 

The second day after the event at Baker Street was even worse than the first, John thought while he was battling on. It appeared to be true what the kids are saying, that the first day of school is less horrible than the second, because only then the reality hits in.

For the first time in years, John was close to wishing that he would be back in Ireland.

Everything had to be better than his current reality.

Ironically, a year later, he would be look back and chide himself for even thinking this because even if 2008 had its difficulties, it would be nothing compared to 2009.

Only one aspect remained true: the sense of the beginning of an end. In 2008, it is only a feeling that John could not shake off. That instead of a beginning the kiss in Baker Street would not the step-stone into a happier future but a prolonged epilogue of a love dead before it even had a chance to blossom.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

> Recorded on request of M.
> 
>  

> Date: 2009/02/09
> 
> Location: Dead Letter Office (London, UK)
> 
> Persons: **William Scott Sherlock Holmes** (SH); **Dr. John H. Watson** (JW)
> 
>  
> 
> Context is SH's increasing attitude to "PREFER NOT TO" which delays and disrupts the working processes at Dead Letter Office.
> 
> However, as the following transcript clearly indicates, JW is compromised.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> JW: “It’s in the rules.”
> 
> SH: “Then the rules are wrong!”
> 
> JW: “I’m your boss, Sherlock.”
> 
> SH: “Oh, that won’t work on me.”
> 
> JW: “You’re sure?”
> 
> SH: “Want to bet?”
> 
> JW: “I never bet.”
> 
> SH: “Now I know that you’re not going to make me.”
> 
>  
> 
> [---]
> 
>  
> 
> SH: “Backpedal. Why? Because you bet, Dr Watson. Gambling, if I’m not mistaken. Which I rarely am. So, doctor, pray tell me: what are you going to do to me?”

 

In his car, Mycroft set his phone to hands-free and hit redial repeatedly. He was on the way back to work when at last the line was free. Hope spiked then crashed with each unanswered ring. There was nobody there. He had missed his window. And he didn’t know where Sherlock was sleeping tonight. Reality was a punch in Mycroft’s gut. He was there for him once, Sherlock during his uni days, and he will be there again. Mycroft was trying to remote-control his life, when the brutal truth is that it’s been out of his control since he found him in the drug den. He can only hope that he had make a list.

The miles between Sherlock and Mycroft seem to stretch out and then snap.

This soldier-fellow, this so-called doctor, could be his brother's saviour or his downfall. They could be each other's fixes, or made each other worse than ever.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John met Mycroft, Sherlock’s older brother, on the on the exact day when John and Sherlock had kissed in the office a second time. Pure chance? John didn’t buy it for a second.

He had left work and was walking aimlessly through the streets of London as he was not willing to go home yet. Out of a sudden, the first telephone in one of the telephone booth rang. Then, Dr. John Watson's life took another route, when a pristine, rather posh sounding voice, ordered him: “Do you see the camera on your right?”  
  
Always the good soldier, John did as asked and followed the instruction. What he witnessed is rather remarkable: the camera was moving, and then the next (“camera on your right”), until no camera recorded the black car that appeared in front of him. Then John found himself face to face to a middle-aged man who wore a three-piece suit and had thinning ginger hair. Ever-the-soldier, John battled on: “That was rather impressive. I will give you that. But... you could just phone me.”  
  
“Dr. John Watson, as you’ve experienced already, I am sure, when you’re familiar with Sherlock Holmes, one tends to need certain ways to communicate without drawing his attention.”  
  
“So, it’s about Sherlock.”  
  
The man’s only reaction was a rise of his eyebrows. John pushed back: “Who are you? What do you want? What is my role in this?”  
  
“Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock’s older brother. I worry about him, constantly.”  
  
“That’s nice of you.”  
  
“I wish to remain unnoticed. That is one of the reasons for this way of contacting you. However, it has come to my notice that my brother has made the habit of not only working, but living as well, in your office. And because I assume, and going by your facial expression, I conclude that I was right, it has gone unnoticed by you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I am saying that my brother, Sherlock Holmes, instead of living in his perfectly adequate flat has instead taken up residence in your office. Which is illegal, I assure you. Not that my dear brother ever cared about such a thing. However, we have tasks that are more pressing: Which leads to you, Dr. Watson. I want my brother to be back in his flat. I cannot get him away from his job at the Dead Letter Office, but at least I can do my best to assure that, when he is off-duty, he is not in the office. Something, I assume, is in your interest, as well.”

  
John cleared my throat. It was an old habit of him to conceal his emotion, but Mycroft Holmes (if that was his real name) probably had his record read by now. Nothing to loose, John admitted, “Well. Yes. Sure.”  
  
“Which means: You will talk to him. Persuade him to leave your office and to come back to his flat. 221B Baker Street, central London, charming apartment; wonderful property owner, Mrs. Hudson. She offered him a special deal. It is an interesting tale. Sherlock will love it to tell you the story, I am sure of it. Of course, I am willing to pay a meaningful sum, adding to the rent, when you keep me informed of what he is up to. Nothing indiscreet, nothing that makes you uncomfortable? Just tell me what he is up to. And, of course, ensure that this nonsense is stopped. Immediately.”  
  
“Not interested.”  
  
“In what: money, Sherlock or both.”  
  
The car stopped before the Dead Letter Office. John dumbly tumbled out on the street. Mycroft Holmes voice sounded smug, when he reminding him: “Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson.”

What shall I do?, John thought, while buttoning up his coat. He heard rather saw the black car vanishing as if nothing of this had ever happened. What shall I do? What ought I to do? What does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather, ghost? In the end, it was no question at all.[2]

Dr. John H. Watson would face the ghost, his very own Bartleby, and his demons.

In under an hour, John dragged Sherlock out of the Dead Letter Office, yelled at him (Close to punch him, too) and moved in with him in 221b. At least, he already knew about the rooms (small mercies). Stubbornly, he refused to think about what happened the last time here. (Stupid, foolish, heart.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Some days during the one year of their cohabitation, it seems as if they are close to become something. There are days that are bright and beautiful, full of mischief and laughter, full of hope. It was not simply John’s romanticism or later grief that rose-tinted his memories. All of this happened; it was only not enough to contain the darkness within.

Take Valentine’s Day, for instance.

It was Mrs Hudson whose posture was something between amusement and scolding, when she asked: “Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?” She stood in the doorway to 221b. In her hand, she was holding a tray with some baked goods and two steaming cups of tea. Before John could come and help her with it, she shook herself out of her thoughts, and entered the flat more firmly. Then, she fixed Sherlock with a stern look. “Sherlock Holmes, you, young man are going to clean up that mess. And don’t you dare to make that nice doctor do the work, do you hear me?”  
His innocent look did not impress her. She just pushed the tray in my hands, adding, “And don’t let him get away with it.”  
“Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson. I was a soldier”.

John winked at her, and she grinned. Sherlock just puffed out some noise and muttered something while he started to pick up the first items from the living room table. Just when standing on the doorstep, she responded: “Don’t overdo the soldier-thing, just saying. He might do it on purpose next time. Live and let live, I say. So: behave, boys.”

Oh, yes, the people around them saw. Sure, they were idiots but most people are. Their mistake was to see but not to observe. Which is a human error, Sherlock Holmes would tell you if you ever met him. Mrs Hudson was a bit better than the average person was, however, she was also terribly based. She desperately wanted her two Baker Street Boys to be happy.

Therefore, she winked at that particular day, as she would do countless times later, hoping that the two idiots would get the message. She would be willing to turn up her radio if they wanted to made up _loudly_ too. She was an elderly lady, she had seen quite a lot about life and love, and those two, she was convinced, are going to last.

She was wrong, of course. Nevertheless, she winked, she saw John Watson clearing his throat, and even if he did not blush, she was sure that Sherlock had. When she left, Sherlock was already busy with cleaning the table and their two chairs in record time, what else could Mrs Hudson think that one day (soon) they would see how much in love they are?

 

There were good days, days during which John Watson thought that he had found the missing piece he yearned to found. Oh, it was so nearly, so very nearly.

Those days were about James Bond movie nights, about Chinese takeaway, about tea and biscuits from Mrs Hudson (“But only this once, my dear!”). Sherlock who yelled at crime procedurals. Oh and how John loved and hated it, when Sherlock, the mad lunatic, scribbled comments in the mystery novels John was currently reading. “Wrong!” might be infuriating but at least he did not reveal the murder before John worked it out. This happened on three occasions; one time, Sherlock even claiming that the victim herself had done it. The result was a very put off John Watson who wrote “Wrong!” behind his so-called deduction.

Furthermore, John refused to play CLUEDO with him one more time, lastly, both refused to address the elephant in the room, aka the last time they both had attended the crime dinner at work for Christmas holidays. Whenever Sherlock tried to start a conversation about that, John blocked. Oh, the list of things far more urgent was long; surely, one has to go shopping now, like, exactly the second when Sherlock was ready to tiptoe into battle.

Only later, far later, when it was too late already, John tried to build bridges again. However, then it was already one last man standing, and the last man was John himself.

In the beginning of the year, the year that turned out the singularity and not the regularity, John was all for cementing the status quo. One could not move in with someone, jump into bed with someone, and maybe even give a happy announcement at the end of the week, surely?

John had all the good intentions.

He still was Sherlock’s boss. Now, they were living together. Lastly, he used to be a doctor and he saw that Sherlock was not doing well. Oh, and John Watson himself had his demons too.

After one year of what he perceived as a royal fuck-up, he did not wanted to be a fuck-up anymore. After all, he was not only a soldier; he was a healer as well. In 2009, he wanted to fix himself and after that, he intended to fix Sherlock Holmes, and then, hopefully, they could become something. Until then he would keep calm and carry on, oh, and enjoy the ride because living with Sherlock Holmes was the best thing that happened to him.

Loving would be even better, so he thought. Not falling in love, but being in love and have the love return one day, and therefore his mantra was whenever he mumbled “today is going to be a good day”, he silently added, privately, only to himself, “and it will be even better still” (it won’t).

In 2008, it was all about deductions, experiments, and late-night excursions because Sherlock wanted to check a source, and indexes of god-knows-what.

Even today, John could recall the highlights of his deductions.

Oh, John was never short of “Amazing!”, “Brilliant” and “Fantastic”. There was the solution of his recently started crime novel, “It was the brother; the green ladder, obviously.” Alternatively, Sherlock’s comment about the woman on the telly, wearing pink: “She’s having an affair. Just look at her jewellery”. There were men with gambling habits, and the one secretly into cross-dressing, and the couple on holidays and the man intending to propose but “she will say no”. This one piqued an interest, so John inquired further and received “sugar daddy, one-night-stand gone wrong, age difference only kinky in bedroom”-story. Sherlock ended with, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up marrying his son”.

 

 

 

> Sherlock Holmes' list about John H. Watson (part of Sherlock's memoirs; found by John after he has left 221B for good)
> 
>  
> 
> **John H. Watson, his limits**
> 
>   * Conductor of light
>   * Calls me “his best friend” (> irrational but not all unpleasant)
>   * Blogging abilities not all together unhelpful
>   * He allows body parts in the fridge (including heads and thumbs!)
>   * Shows interest in my experiments
>   * Excellent tea!
>   * Hudson + Mummy approve > have to find a way to prevent them to act too emotional
>   * Isn’t scared by Mycroft (see: did not take the money)
>   * Medical man
>   * GUN
>   * Military experience (Where are the dog tags? Who is Major Sholto?)
>   * Kissing was... good
>   * How can I get rid of his nightmares? They are unacceptable.
> 

> 
> Inconclusive. Needs further study.
> 
> Working hypothesis: **There are no limits when it comes to John H. Watson.**

 

There were moments during which they had the chance to become more than sharing a flat, a life and a sofa (unless Sherlock was in one of his moods and was blocking the sofa for what feels days, without moving a muscle, and calling it “going into his mind palace”. During such interludes, he reminded John even more of a cat. Lazy git, but gorgeous.).  
  
There were moments when John thought: ‘Maybe this time...”, but their time never came. A deduction ended, at best, with a “Brilliant”, never with a kiss. Sherlock played the violin but as far as John could tell, he never serenaded him (Oh, he did. He played until his fingertips ached during the nights when John’s memories from war haunted him. He played until Mrs Hudson came up worried when John was away on conferences. He played and played and played but John did not notice.). If he secretly composed a love song for John, then it remained a secret because John believed to have never listen to it. (The song that became a favourite of John over summer? The one that never failed to put a smile on his face, even it sometimes took some time after a long and stressful day at the office. It was Sherlock’s own composition. Why you did never asked him? Oh, you were an idiot, John Watson. And Sherlock Holmes’ idiot all the time.)  
  
Hell, one morning Sherlock Holmes walked around the flat in only a sheet! If he had wanted John, that would have been the perfect opportunity, so John reasoned to himself. Just let it drop... that would have been a pick-up line even Johnny would have understand. John played it out in all its glorious details in his bed later, because John H. Watson was only a man. A man that never pretended to be a good one. (Which Sherlock thought you were all along. Because why did you not came to him then? He was waiting, shivering, first of nerves, then because of the cold, in his own bedroom.)

A warning could have been a bleak and windy day towards the end of March of the year 2008. However, such turning points mostly reveal their importance only in retrospect. On that day, Sherlock had received an email while they sat at dinner that evening, and he had typed a reply already. He had made no remark, but apparently the matter had remained in his thoughts, for Sherlock stood in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon John with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.  
  
“I suppose, John, we must look upon you as a man of letters,” said Sherlock. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”  
  
“Strange – remarkable,” John suggested.  
  
Sherlock shook his head at John’s definition.  
  
“There is surely something more than that,” Sherlock replied, “some underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible.” [3]

 

 

* * *

 

 

A sense of forshadowing should have befallen John when he witnessed Sherlock getting into contact with Alan Turing's legacy. 

  
Alan Turing fascinated Sherlock.

 

> Text message between **Mycroft Holmes** and **Sherlock Holmes**
> 
>  
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 03:21pm
> 
> Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 03:25pm
> 
> Turing, Sherlock? Really? [10]
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 03:25pm
> 
> File attached.
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 03:28pm
> 
> What do you want, Mycroft? SH
> 
>  
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 03:28pm
> 
> Maybe giving you a little recap in British history, brother dear.
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 03:31pm
> 
> Or maybe pointing out how you and your government [unsent]
> 
>  
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 03:32pm
> 
> Interesting.
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 03:32pm
> 
> What? SH
> 
>  
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 18:45
> 
> You being … affected.
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 18:50
> 
> Really, Sherlock, I somehow understand it: Misfit, genius, some social issues. There are some similarities.
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 18:50
> 
> Gay. SH
> 
>  
> 
> **Mycroft Holmes** 18:50
> 
> Sherlock!
> 
>  
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 18:51
> 
> That was the word you and them searched for: Gay. Or rather male homosexual. And IF you want to point out that time proved that they were wrong and that you THINK that he, me, or anybody else with “some similarities” find condolence or whatever pleasantries you and your government have in mind than I can simply say: NO. SH
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 18:51
> 
> And he deserved better.
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 18:51
> 
> And he was right. SH
> 
> **Sherlock Holmes** 18:51
> 
> And I am by no mean affected. I am simply interested in a mind working similar to mine. End of story. SH

 

As John Watson, head of the Dead Letter Office in London, entered his workspace on that particular day, Sherlock, his official PA, was already waiting for him.

It was not unusual as they rarely made a habit of coming into work together. They tried to avoid suspicion, or so John thought/reasoned with himself in private.

Most days, Sherlock would work through the night on some case, would fall asleep exhausted in the early hours, and only rose when John was making breakfast. Without the tea made by John, Sherlock refused to get up. (No exception, as John learned the hard way one day he wanted to call in sick, and yes, he had been sick, thank-you-very-much, however, that lazy git wasn't willing to not make tea once (!) but ordered him around to made tea, practically blackmailing him, come to think about it, because without his tea made by John, he hadn't been arsed to do so much as going to Mrs Hudson and ask for some meds.) Then, however, the man was more than happy to stay in the bathroom until John was commuting on the tube, because his flatmate had the magical ability to pull up a cab everywhere in seconds. And apparently, a brother who was willing to pay for all the bills.

Why Sherlock still managed to be on time? Most times up to ten minutes to John.

Two reasons. First, he had the map of London memorized, including all the shortcuts. He was not afraid to yell at cab drivers if they did not follow his directions. John had tried it out exactly once, because it seemed more comfortable than the tube during rush hour, and afterwards opted for the tube indefinitely. The second reason was that John socialized and Sherlock did not. As the head of the Dead Letter Office, he could rush through the building like A Very Important Person, or he could act like a decent human being. Keep the team spirit high, John, had been the mantra of James, and John Watson still followed his old major's orders.

Anyway, when John entered the office on that particular day, Sherlock was already waiting for me. He was sitting in my chair, and started to read a letter aloud, the moment I had closed the door behind us.

 

 

> My dear Norman,  
>    
>  I don't think I really do know much about jobs, except the one I had during the war, and that certainly did not involve any travelling. I think they do take on conscripts. It certainly involved a good deal of hard thinking, but whether you'd be interested I don't know. Philip Hall was in the same racket and on the whole, I should say, he didn't care for it. However I am not at present in a state in which I am able to concentrate well, for reasons explained in the next paragraph.  
>    
>  I've now got myself into the kind of trouble that I have always considered to be quite a possibility for me, though I have usually rated it at about 10:1 against. I shall shortly be pleading guilty to a charge of sexual offences with a young man. The story of how it all came to be found out is a long and fascinating one, which I shall have to make into a short story one day, but haven't the time to tell you now. No doubt I shall emerge from it all a different man, but quite who I've not found out.  
>    
>  Glad you enjoyed broadcast. Jefferson certainly was rather disappointing though. I'm afraid that the following syllogism may be used by some in the future.  
>    
>  Turing believes machines think  
>  Turing lies with men  
>  Therefore machines do not think
> 
>  

When Sherlock Holmes stopped with, “Yours in distress”, he looked up and searched for John's gaze. Fixed on me, he concluded: “Alan Turing.” [4]

Until today, John wasn't sure how he reacted.

He replayed the situation over-and-over, and yet, he couldn't suss it out. Had he mumbled an "okay" that wasn't sure if it was a question or not? Maybe he had simply nodded? All John could remember was the silence. There were no Sherlock deducing things or monopolizing a dialogue or creating his very own show with his expressive features and gestures and his whole being. Instead, for the first time, it appeared as if he was frozen in time and place. He was still Sherlock but... not with me.

It scared the shit out of John.

It was the turning point. Before, John had known fear, real or all in his mind. He had had bad days, as a soldier, as a doctor, as a man. You could not live a life like Johnny Watson turned John Watson had without having ghosts. He knew firsthand about the war of our lives no one can win. John Watson knew all about the darkness within.

However, now, from this day on, he feared that shadows and lies masked Sherlock from him.

He hoped that it would turn out to be wrong. That if he fought on, through dark and light, he would come close to the truth of him, and until that day, he really hoped that he had a chance.

Even then, he deluded himself, that the end was far away, that the beginning of something better for both of them was near, that all was so close.

The truth?

The truth was that they were so far away from it all. All that John did was writing love letters in his mind to a dead man walking.

When John offered to do a watch along in their flat that night with movies about Alan Turing, it was nothing like excavating the past. Sherlock might have sat next to him, but there was a countdown already, a clock-ticking unknown to him.

For an evening, they could pretend that all was well. Sherlock, the man who did not care that Kate Winslet played the lead ("Who?") and instead demanded the true story. Not some fictionalized main story with a forbidden love that, of course, is heterosexual. Not some far-fetched spy thriller when the real events were so much more.  
  
“Maybe one day, there will be a movie”, John said. “Maybe one day, the true story will be told. Not the facts and figures, not like a documentary, but about the man himself.”  
  
Sherlock huffed, he hated to be mollified (or so he claimed), but some time later, John heard him mumble, “He deserved it.”  
  
John only squeezed Sherlock hand, but he thought that he got the message anyway: “We all do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

There is a saying that stars shine only bright in the darkness.  
  
Sherlock Holmes, even when he claimed that he deleted the solar system and everything remotely related to astronomy, was the brightest star. He once called John Watson his conductor of light; in truth, he was the light, and he did not only conduct experiment after experiment, but he led John from the darkness into light.  
  
If John had been a conductor of light, he would have done the same for him.  
  
Before meeting Sherlock, John had typed, “Nothing ever happened to me” to the blog that his therapist Ella had urged him to start. Since 2008, John could claim that there was a lunatic in his life that called “The Game is on”.  
  
John H. Watson followed Sherlock Holmes, always the good soldier, ready, into battle.  
He had a mission: Save Sherlock Holmes.  
Instead, everything went to hell.

The fatal error Dr. John H. Watson made was to not inquire further, why Sherlock’s brother had been so worried. The truth is that Sherlock Holmes was much addicted to cocaine and morphine. Oh, he claimed that he was never an addict but an only a user – and when he learned that, the good doctor Watson, then he realized that the addict was speaking. However, then it was all too late.

When John first heard, that Sherlock Holmes had a drug problem, his instant reaction was “This man, a junkie? Have you met him?” because he could not believe it. When Sherlock had called himself a “high-functional sociopath”, John laughed because it seemed laughable. Because, you know, “Have you met him?”

John had considered “You’re an idiot, John” as some kind of inside-joke or even a weird form of endearment. He had shrugged away Sherlock’s phrases of “my body is only transport” and had grinned at his mad flatmate’s mantra of “breathing is boring”.

Sherlock Holmes was not an ordinary man. Sure, John had known that regular meals, regular sleep, regular check-ups were not his habitat. “Dull” had been his only comment. John had let it go.

It had hit him when Mycroft came to fetch Sherlock’s clothes, his violin and his laptop, “What kind of doctor are you, Dr. Watson? My brother is obviously not well”.

John could not even remember what the last sentence to Sherlock anymore. All he could hope was that he had brought across that he always believed him to be terribly human.

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Parts of the chapter are inspired by the original short story collection of the ITV hit series "Broadchurch". It's all about demons, and also more about a character study than a crime show. I did a re-watch and re-read recently, and what should I say? Parts stuck. (On personal note: The lesbians are so much more awesome in the original novel than the series. Not that they aren't nice in the adaptation, but... yeah, nope, Maggie & Lil <3)
> 
> [2] The quote is directly from Melville's "Bartleby". As well as the sleeping in the office and the narrator aka Bartleby's boss trying to help him. Reminder: "Then All The World" has NO major character death. I promise.
> 
> [3] The talk about "grotesque" is from ACD canon, obviously. As well as the list, in canon ("A Study in Scarlet") however, it's John Watson who makes a list about Sherlock Holmes' abilities shortly after he met the queer chap in Bart's hospital. What should one do? Except excessivly observe the man who cohabitates your room? Nothing to see back then and here... ;)
> 
> [4] The letter by Alan Turing is real as well as the film, "Enigma". The opinion Sherlock Holmes' offers regarding the film might or might not the author's personal opinion. Parts of Alan Turing's private correspondence were only found last year in Manchester; until then, they were dead letters, too. Benedict Cumberbatch made an excellent read-aloud of said letter to Norman for Letters Live. Google it if you're interested.


	7. 29 January 2009

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, we are all alone; or, every story has its Reichenbach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third January 29th in the life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's unusual love story, and this time, it seems as if it's the end. As you can see on the chapter number, it's not the end - even Sherlock and John, for different reasons, think it is. They certainly act as if the end is nigh, as "Good Omens" would say.
> 
> So sorry for the delay; real life had its demands. You know how it goes. However, this fic won't be abandon and turned in a dead letter. It's too precious to me. Promise! Hope that I will update sooner. Comments & kudos are very welcome (seriously, I *need* all the motivation I can get right now).
> 
> Ade

> Text message from **Sherlock Holmes** to **John Watson** [date: 2009/01/29]

> **Sherlock Holmes**

> I had to go away, John. I had to test if I could do it ... could do without the work but not without you, John. [Unsent]

 

 

Sherlock preferred not to leave John, but he knew that it had to be done.  
  
At dawn, Sherlock forced himself to get up from the makeshift bed on the sofa. He had slept poorly, every hour he had looked at his smart phone: for the time, for new messages, for distraction. Now, it was seven o’clock and a new day.

  
John switches on the radio to avoid to talk in the morning. The news were nothing new. Sherlock switched the radio off.  Hedrank a cup of tea and ate a baked roll. Mechanically. He donned his pyjamas and dressing gown. The shower helped minimal. He put on his underwear, his black suit and his white button-down; black socks hidden over black leather shoes; he thought about a belt but dismissed it. Battledress. He avoided the mirror. Brushed his teeth, decided to have a shave, decided against it; he combed his hair; it was half past seven, when he finally shaved.  
  
John had never kissed his cheek, or his nose, or his forehead.  
  
He knew that he would have to take his Belstaff with him. John would realize far too soon that something was different if he left him behind. It was June, it would be hot but there was no alternative. Sherlock hid his blue cashmere scarf; refusing to think about the look on John’s face whenever he had wore it. Instead, he grabbed his valet. Where were his keys? Sherlock looked into the mirror in the entrance, while he pocketed his smart phone.  
  
Sherlock closed the door behind 221B. Mrs Hudson should be still fast asleep; he had given her a bit extra of her herbal soother last night. She had been giddy, hinting that she could always use earplugs, and how happy she was for them, Sherlock had felt a tinge of uneasiness. However, he knew what was necessary. He could never leave Baker Street with Mrs Hudson awake.  
  
While waiting on the pavement, he hoped that no one from Speedy’s has registered his departure and would inform them. God forbid, they could give an exact report in the one occasion Sherlock needed them the same-old, average, boring, normal Londoner. Tom Wiggins knew not to let anything slip. Tom knew how it is.

 

Sherlock hailed a taxi to get into the heart of his city.  
The total number of licensed taxi and private hire vehicles in England increased by 9,3% to 232,200 between 2005 and 2008.[1] 69% of all licensed vehicles in England were private hire vehicles. 35% of the total number of all licensed vehicles in England were private hire vehicles. 35% of the total number of licensed taxis and private hire vehicles in England were in London.  
Sherlock thinks that one might say that a taxi is an invisible car. John would love it. It sounds like one of his sensational stories. A taxi driver who tries to raise his pay check by killing passenger. Maybe the killer thought it would be smart; it is smart, brilliant even, Sherlock had to admit. But who pays a serial killer? John would find it a bit not good. Or would he giggle? Would he laugh? Would they both grin madly at each other?  
  
Sherlock tries not to tamp his fingers on his thighs too much and to calm his heart rate.  
Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out.  
The streets of London flew by. The lights were almost hurting in his eyes but Sherlock forced himself not to close them.

Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out.

 

Sherlock Holmes was running.  
  
He set foot before foot. With every step, he tried to remind himself that he was running. The clothes were damp on his skin. He was sweating profoundly. After all, there was a difference to chasing a criminal or jogging for fun. Sherlock had not counted the rounds. He could do the math easily, even now, minutes or hours or however long he had been running, later; but it was not about data anymore.  
When his thoughts meandered into dangerous territory, Sherlock rushed to identify the passing spots.  
  
This is Big Ben, this is Westminster Bridge, this is Southbank, this is Tate Modern, this is XOX, this is Globe, this is Borough Market, and this is this is this.  
One time, it was Jubilee Bridge where he crossed the Thames, one time it was Tower Bridge, one time Sherlock made the extra metres to Bart’s, one time he thought about St Paul’s and how it had been so important that during WWII the cathedral had never fell.

 

Sherlock Holmes ran for hours through the heart of his city.

Sherlock breathed in the heat and the sweat.  
Sherlock heard the noise and the clatter.  
Sherlock saw hundreds of faces and stops deducing them.

Of course, the deduction had not stopped appearing in his mind. Sherlock Holmes was not a machine; he could not simply switch it off.  
One might say that it was what defined him. That this is what made him Sherlock Holmes: the man with a special power that was still human but almost impossible.  
What was impossible was to run away from the thoughts, feelings, memories, and new deductions that were crashing into him. They were all trying to overpower him, but he could overrule it all.  
Because when his mind was a computer, Sherlock Holmes had the master password.  
 

His brother was with him every step, or, to be more precisely, his cameras were.  
  
For the first time, Sherlock was not bothered or angered by it, and not because he was too tired, too exhausted, to broken to care at some point, but because it was a constant companion. It was only an artificial eye, it was not human, it worked with an algorithm, and it was illegal to use it to keep the taps on your younger brother, but was this not what it is? Always has, always will be?  
  
Technical devices to shield true emotions, to prefer a sharp mind than to be led by sentiment, to look at the bigger picture and not care about casualties and narrow-minded people, to live and work and breath in the grey zones of humanity.  
To be human but only to an extent.  
They were not ordinary, Mycroft and Sherlock, they did not fit in.  
Never have, never will, and while it was maybe not a perfect fit, maybe it was a good arrangement?  
When his transport tried to whisper that the arrangement with ordinary human, John, was close to perfect, Sherlock made a sign to one of the cameras.  
His brother would know the next step.  
(After all, Sherlock had made a list. Like his brother had ordered him to do since his last overdose in university.)

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes left John Watson on a Sunday. It was the 29th of January. It had been exactly two years since John had become the Head of the Dead Letter Office in London and had hired Sherlock as his PA. Last year, it had been the kiss that could have been the beginning; now, John knew for sure that it was the beginning of the end.

Somehow, John Watson ended up in a bar.  The bar was one of the old ones that seem chic now. Local, mostly frequented by people around the corner, when a newcomer showed up, might it a tourist or a Londoner who heard about it from someone who knew someone, you know the tale, and then there was first suspicion than surprise. It was not that they prefer silence here. Far from it, there was talk in English, in German, in Italian, in French, without stop, without translation, no introduction or interpretation needed. It was only that they were a tight bunch.

There were the two university students near the door. For hours, they were sitting over their books, scribble notes, and were comparing their thoughts. They had had a strong coffee when they first showed up around midday. Now, it was a carafe of water, with ice cubes and slices of lemon swimming in it; it was all they could afford but it was enough. Even there was still the light of the day; they had turned up the lamp on their table. It wobbled when their discussions got too heated. Probably it was more heat than light, anyway, but neither they nor John cared.

  
Besides the two young men and him, there was only the man behind the bar.

They majority of the guests were sitting outside in the sun. Couples, bunch of teens, patchwork families, one group that might be exchange students or Italians who had found a new home in London. One never knew; barely someone cared. John Watson definitely did not care.  
The man behind the bar was a refugee. Originally, from the Sudan, he only had had a visa for Italy. Even that he had a job here, even he tried to learn the language, and he did not get the UK. All he asked were some coins for his family back home. Not for him, so that he could find at least a bedsit in some even shabbier part of the town like John had used to live when he had came back from the war. John did not ask where he slept these days, the man only asked him to repeat his order for a pint. After all, the man was still learning the language.

  
There were no chairs that were the same in that bar. A ratty sofa, a table that overflew with flyers and posters and postcards for events; there was no tapestry. The walls were not bare, though, there were graffiti, there were old photographs, and there were bookshelves over bookshelves. John gave up counting the shelves alone after a minute or two; how could one properly say how many books are stuffed into the rooms? There were medical books, many classic literature, dictionaries, comic books, travel guides, bestseller, and old and new, well read with dog-ears, the only genre that I had not spot (yet) is children literature. Wherever you had come from, whatever your mother tongue was, however wide your field of interest, you could start reading your way back home here.

John Watson sat in the bar for hours.

He drank a pint, dark brew. Probably he should have stick to water but it was too late now. There was a song played; there was a laptop with a playlist hidden behind the bar. He did not know the song, he was not sure if he would look it up on the internet when he would come home, even it stroked a chord inside him. It is Irish, John mused. Folk music, but not as upbeat as he associated with the green island. Johnny Watson's old home.

 

 _One step from heaven,_  
_One step from hell,_  
_There is no saving_  
_Unless you save yourself_ [1]

 

John Watson could not stop his thoughts from wandering off to Sherlock Holmes. The man that had left him and their home, 221b Baker Street in the heart of London.  
 

John would give Greg a call later, or, the anonymous bar man would call him, which was more likely. Greg would fetch John and drag him out of the bar because he would not be as stable as he wished to be on his legs. John Watson would know that he could not blame the war for this.  
This was another fight, another battlefield.  
His words would be slurred, mostly he would be quiet and tried to carry own, but there would be one, two, or maybe three slip-ups, a mumbled “Sherlock”. Then he would be decent enough to know that he  could not blame everything on Sherlock. Maybe in a couple of hours though, when John's head would be sore, when he would woke up in the foreign sofa in Greg’s sitting room, and all would be rushed back again, then things might be changing.  
  
Because then it would hit John Watson like a blow.  
That almost three years after he had come from war, he would be in a similar position again.  
Lost in the vast city of London.  
Haunted by ghosts, feeling adrift, without purpose or plan.  
Only, unless last time, there would not be a Sherlock Holmes to save him.

 

* * *

 

 

Maybe he is depressed, or mad. After what he’s been through, some kind of mental illness must be almost a certainty. It’s basic cause and effect. To stay sane in his situation would be like falling down a thousand step stairs without breaking any bones. Something along the lines were the thoughts on the day and the day following, at the end of January in 2009, when Sherlock left John because he thought that he had to.

So what if he is mad? What will they do, offer him therapy? Again. Give him anti-depressants? God knows it’s tempting, sometimes, the thought of taking a tablet and letting it all melt away. Forgetting the past to make the future bearable. There was that Kate Winslet film he watched with Mrs Hudson where they erase your memory up to a certain point so that you aren’t bogged down by the bad stuff. Sherlock has often daydreamed about that, but even f such a thing were possible he knows that there would be a limit. He has deleted so many things, and yet, some things remain.

He takes off his coat and he’s still too hot. 

For what feels like hours, he had been here. His new therapist's office might be in London or not, Sherlock could deduce it but he was too tired. Basically, he was counting the time until Mycroft would fetch him up to take him to his place. No rehab facility, Mycroft knew his brother too well. Hopefully, it would be only for some weeks until Sherlock could find a new appartement for himself, start anew, somewhere that was not 221b. Somewhere without John. Sherlock could not even made out the exact time at the moment. Somewhere later in the afternoon, so around ten hours after he had left 221b. Time, location, people, nothing was important anylonger. Sherlock had not got the strength to pretend that everything was okay.

“Just give it to me, then,” said he, sitting opposite of her. “Give me the bloody questionnaire.”

Ella smiled softly. “All in good time. Look, Mr Holmes, I understand now your aversion against rehability facilities. We’ll work from here.”

Sherlock brightened. “You mean that I can go to my brother's house and we can stop this talk.”

“No,” said Ella. “I still want to keep an eye on you. Not because I think you’re going to harm yourself willingly, but because you are vulnerable, even if you don’t want to admit it. But I won’t come and see you every day. What I’ll do is check in every few days. If you feel you’re not coping, there are options. Don’t be stubborn.”

“I’m not stubborn.”

Ella raised her magnificent eyebrows.

“How come you changed your mind, then?” he asked.

Ella closed the file on her lap and looked Sherlock in the eye.

“I had a call from someone who helped me see things from your perspective,” she said.

“Let me guess: my brother, Mycroft Holmes?”

“No,” said Ella. “Someone I worked with a while back.” She started to pack up her bag, putting her various sheaves of paperwork into compartments. On her way out of the door she turned and looked over her shoulder. “I won’t patronise you by pretending I understand what you’re going through,” she said. “But you know, you’re not as alone as you think you are.”

Sherlock thought she meant his work, probably his family, and hopefully Mrs Hudson who’s more than a landlady. It was only after Ella had let him go that Sherlock realised who the old client had been: It was John.

John who was still living in 221b and Sherlock still did not know what the morning will bring. Sherlock braced himself for a sleepless night. His brother's house was too quiet, and the walls appeared to be closing in. Wrapping himself in his beloved coat, Sherlock took a tour across London.

Soon, he found a silent square in one of the parks. There was little light pollution. Sherlock looked up the sky; one star – the North Star? The Dog Star? John would have known – seemed to shine brighter than the rest. Sherlock fixed his eyes on it.

“Goodnight, John,” he said, and after a second hesitating, he added, “Thank you”.

Without meaning to, Sherlock turned slowly in a half-circle to the dead letter office. The light in the top room was on and a figure was moving around inside: John.

Sherlock's thoughts were in uproar immediately. He remembered John’s outstretched hand and how good it had felt to take it. Sherlock fought down the softening inside him. How could he accept... friendship again? How could he trust? To survive the next twelve hours, the next few weeks, the rest of his life, so far, he has to keep a force field like a shell around himself and his heart.

Sherlock Holmes turned his head away from the office and looked up.

The star that was shining so bright above his twinkles once, then disappeared behind a cloud.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> Kudos are love. 
> 
> Comments are very welcome.


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